


Hydra Horror Story

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Arachnophobia, Asexual Character, Dammit Westfahl, Dead animals, Doppelganger, Halloween, Hallucinations, Haunted House, M/M, Makeshift funeral, Memory Loss, Mirrors, Nightmares, Ouija, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sleep Paralysis, Slow Burn, Strike Team, Team Bonding, Tentacles, apparitions - Freeform, cheesy punching a mirror scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: When you can’t trust yourself, whom do you trust?“I think I’m losing my mind.” Brock’s voice was hollow, like the thought alone didn’t make bile rise in his throat. “I can’t even tell if I’m dreaming or not.”“Calm down, you’re fine. Of course you don’t know if you’re dreaming, you’re barely awake. You’re gonna be just fine in the morning.”It sounded… well, tempting to believe in. Could he believe it? His gut told him it wasn’t that simple, but could he really trust himself anymore? And if he couldn’t, who else was there to trust but Jack? Jack who always looked out for him, who saved his life time and time again? Jack, who currently suffered from a minor head trauma and was the best liar – maybe apart from Pierce – Brock knew?The plan was simple: go to Scotland, eliminate the target, come back home. The mission went smoothly. It was the coming back that was the problem.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [История ужасов Гидры](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461191) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> The rating and warnings will most likely change in the future.

Looking out the window, Brock felt like he was gliding through the void. The road existed only where the SUV’s lights touched it and dissolved into nothingness when the impenetrable darkness surrounding them swallowed it. He leaned against the window, the glass cooling his face. He could fall asleep like this. If only Westfahl shut up…

They were in Nowhere, Scotland (the real name of the town classified). Brock just spent eight hours in a quinjet and was now stuck in the SUV for another hour. No wonder he was tired. Scratch that, he was exhausted. He dreamt about hitting the sack as soon as they arrived at their destination. Food and shower could wait till the morning.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the plan.

It was Halloween, which meant two things. One: Westfahl was singing _This Is Halloween_ , and he was smart enough to sit as far away from Brock as possible in the far back of the SUV. Brock was sitting next to the driver who hadn't introduced himself. The only thing he said so far was “hail Hydra” when they first met. Brock was fine with that.

“Dammit, Westfahl, shut the fuck up,” Mercer said. “We’re all tired.”

Westfahl shut the fuck up and Brock was so grateful he could kiss Mercer. Thankfully, she was sitting behind him, squeezed between Jack and the Winter Soldier, so it wasn’t happening.

Two: it was Jack’s birthday. Halloween was a good reason to party, but if it was both Halloween _and_ a teammate’s birthday, a party was obligatory. Jack insisted they didn’t have to celebrate—he had a love/hate relationship with his birthday date, with hate predominating once he got older. It was cool to have a birthday on Halloween when he was a kid, but now it only made him realize he was getting closer to dying. Trying to convince a bunch of drunks not to drink alcohol when there wasn’t only one, but two occasions turned out to be impossible though, so the celebration would happen, no matter what Jack thought about it.

“I’m trying to liven you up,” Westfahl said after a moment. “So you won’t be dead at the party.”

“Is that supposed to be a pun?” McKinnon asked.

“So what if it is?”

Brock rubbed his temples with a sigh. They were very lucky that Westfahl recovered from his bullet wound just in time for this mission. The idiot shot himself in a foot over three weeks ago. He still limped a little, and swallowed painkillers every once in a while, but he got cleared for this op, so Brock had to take him. Though if anybody asked him, he’d say Westfahl deserved to be fired for his idiocy.

Nobody asked him.

Their driver stopped without as much as a word. In the limited light the SUV gave, Brock saw a three story building, growing out of the bare ground, with nothing else around for miles but dying trees. Not even a single street light. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, especially that the rumors about the house in question were still on his mind, despite the absurdity of them. They hardly ever had missions in Scotland, and they never stopped at this particular safehouse.

“Would ya look at that,” McKinnon said when they exited the SUV. She swiped the area with a flashlight. “A Halloween house.”

The house was Victorian, with two towers, one in the front and another in the back. The bluish—or grayish—paint was peeling off. Iron railings adorned the windows and the door; one window was broken, the hole in the pane taped over. The stairways leading to the front porch were intact, though looking at them, Brock was sure Westfahl would fall down at least twice during the three days they were gonna spend there.

“It’s allegedly haunted,” Jack said and Brock groaned internally.

He didn’t tell the rest of the team about the rumors surrounding the house, but of course Jack knew. He had this obsession with checking and collecting intel, and nobody even asked him how he knew things anymore. Jack’s knowledge was like Mercer’s phone—it could either save his life or get him killed one day, whichever came first.

“Hydra has owned it since the sixties,” he continued. “A rich guy offered it as soon as he joined. If anybody asked me, I’d say he wanted to get rid of it.”

“Nobody’s asking you,” Brock grumbled.

“Anyway, it wasn’t used in decades,” Jack continued. “Not since the incident in 1989.”

“What happened?” Westfahl asked.

Jack shrugged. “The only report from that incident I got my hands on was very vague, and half of it was redacted. I don’t know why they even bothered, could’ve set a high level clearance... All I know is, only half the team sent here got back. Hydra sent a team of scientists here after that, from what I gathered, but their reports are classified. Whatever happened, must’ve been weird.”

Westfahl eyed the house distrustfully. Mercer and McKinnon also didn’t seem very enthusiastic. Neither of them made any move to enter the house, so they just stood in front of it for a minute.

“A bunch of bullshit,” Brock said.

He pulled a key out of his pocket and moved to unlock the door. Stale air hit his nostrils. He punched the light switch, but nothing happened. The house was still dark.

“I’ll check the fuses.” Jack walked further inside, a flashlight in hand, searching for the basement door.

Brock followed him, gesturing for the rest to join him. McKinnon aimed her flashlight at the ceiling rather than the floor.

“Ew,” she said. “I counted ten spiders already.”

“Don’t worry. We have the Winter Soldier to kill them for you,” Brock mocked.

Winter’s hand rested on his thigh holster. He wasn’t wearing his combat suit—he’d attract too much attention—but he was armed like the rest of the team. “Now?” he asked in a soft voice.

Brock almost sighed. Apparently, he had to reintroduce the Soldier to the concept of jokes after the last memory wipe he had. That, and point out he didn’t need a gun to kill a spider; a rolled up newspaper would suffice. Nevermind they had plenty of guns and no newspapers.

“Not now,” he said. Teaching the Soldier social norms could wait.

The light flickered on and they switched off their flashlights in relief. They were standing in a place that could be called a living room. It was spacious, not to say bare. A lone couch was standing against a mint green wall. The gray material was stained and full of little holes.

“Moths,” Brock muttered. “Watch out for your clothes.”

McKinnon dropped her bag on the couch, opened it and pulled out two bottles of vodka. “This is gonna be the best Halloween party ever.”

“As long as no spiders land in my glass,” Collins said. He was crouching, also rummaging in his bag.

Jack showed up in the door and looked around, taking in the cobwebs under the ceiling, used furniture and his teammates, excited for alcohol like kids for candy.

“Hey, Jack, why won’t you take a tour of the house?” McKinnon hid the bottles behind her back like they were any secret.

“So what, you can throw me a surprise party?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “It’s not much of a surprise when I know about it.”

“Let’s go take a look,” Brock said. “Call dibs on the best bedrooms. I ain’t sleeping on that couch.”

They climbed a dark staircase to the first floor and entered the closest room. The moment Brock saw a bed—king-sized, with a beautifully decorated headboard and green covers matching the walls—he remembered how exhausted he was. He almost threw himself straight at it, but then his gaze dropped on the dingy ornamented carpet and he noticed two used condoms lying there.

“Westfahl can have this one,” he decided.

Jack followed his line of sight and snorted. They left the room and entered the one on its right side. It looked even better, despite pink bed covers and cushions. There was more furniture: two nightstands with yellowed candles standing on each, a scratched dresser and a coffee table. It had one problem though: it smelled like piss. The source seemed to be an armchair standing before the bed. It had a big stain in the middle of its pink seat.

“You can have this one, princess,” Jack said.

Brock flushed at the stupid endearment. He didn’t strangle Jack only because he was too tired.

“No way, it stinks like an army of cats in here.”

Jack crossed the room to reach the balcony door. He pulled the faded drapes out of the way, covering himself in a thick layer of dust.

“First world problems,” he muttered, opening the balcony door.

Brock felt fresh air on his face. The dank smell of it foreshadowed rain. It would take a lot of time for it to clear out the lingering reek of piss.

“We can place the chair in Westfahl’s bedroom,” Jack said, and Brock snorted.

The armchair was heavier than it looked, but as Westfahl’s bedroom was right next to Brock’s, they moved it rather quickly. Just when they set it on the floor, placing it above the used condoms so they wouldn’t be instantly noticeable, a shriek made them jump. They exchanged looks and ran down the stairs, and into the living room.

Inside, they were startled by a sight of a makeshift bar McKinnon and Collins managed to build by arranging two long glass tables together. They were set with various bottles of soda, juice and liquor; mainly vodka, but somebody also brought bourbon and white rum. There were even shot glasses and a shaker though Brock couldn’t imagine anyone wanting a cocktail.

“Well,” Jack said, taking it all in. “Color me surprised.”

Brock’s eye caught a movement in the corner of the room. It was the Soldier, standing on a wooden chair and swiping the ceiling with a broom. Brock frowned. The Soldier was thawed out just this morning, the chances of him malfunctioning already were low.

“Winter, what’re you doing?” he asked.

The Soldier stopped to look down at him.

“Agent McKinnon asked me to take care of the spiders,” he explained. “She said to use the broom.”

He sent Brock a quizzical look as if he wasn’t hundred percent sure a broom was enough for this job. Brock guessed he’d rather use guns.

“I see,” Brock replied. “‘S fine. Speaking of, where is everybody? And who shrieked?”

“Agent Westfahl. They’re outside.” The Soldier pointed in a general direction of the staircase. Brock guessed they’d find a backdoor there.

When they walked past him, the Soldier hit Jack’s head with the broom.

“The hell?!” Jack glared up at the Soldier.

“You had a spider in your hair,” he explained calmly and returned to swiping the cobwebs off the ceiling.

“I can’t even be angry with him,” Jack said when they walked outside. He pulled cobweb out of his hair.

“He’ll bounce back.” Brock took out his flashlight and switched it on.

“I know.” Jack followed suit. “But I hate it when he’s like this. Makes me feel like a kindergarten teacher.”

Kindergarten teacher wasn’t a metaphor Brock would use, but it came close.

“Fuck me,” Jack blurted out.

“You’re offering?” Brock asked with a smirk before following Jack’s line of sight.

The strong light of their flashlights illuminated oblong stones growing out of the ground. Brock moved towards them, counting. Twelve in total. It wasn’t just a backyard – it was a graveyard.

“Fuck you,” he agreed.

“Hey, come look at this!”

He pointed his flashlight the way McKinnon’s voice came from and saw four silhouettes, one of which was sitting on the ground. It was Westfahl, holding his foot and grimacing in pain. As soon as Brock and Jack approached their teammates, they understood what might have been the reason of Westfahl’s injury.

McKinnon and Collins aimed their flashlights at the ground. They were standing right above a rectangular hole, six foot deep and seven foot wide. A blank gravestone sat at the top.

“Westfahl went on a tour of his own,” McKinnon explained unasked. “And he fucking fell in it.”

“We even wondered if we shouldn’t just bury him right there.” Mercer crouched down to check on Westfahl’s foot. “I mean, it was like a sign from the universe.”

“ _You_ wondered,” Westfahl accused. “I’ll remember.”

Mercer rolled her eyes, untied Westfahl’s boot and helped him take it off. “Is this the foot you shot?”

“Yeah…”

Jack crouched down and touched the inside of the grave. “It’s fresh. Can’t have more than two weeks.”

A willow was growing above the grave, its narrow leaves yellowing and falling. The grave would be filled with them if it was old, but only a handful of them was scattered at the bottom.

“You said this safehouse wasn’t used since 1989,” Collins reminded.

“Is this house known? I mean, like an urban legend?” Brock asked.

Jack nodded, his eyes still scanning the bottom of the grave like it could give him any answers. “Hydra tried to sell it when they got it. They needed money, not a house. But no matter how much they lowered the price, nobody wanted to buy it. So I think yes, people here know it’s haunted.”

“You mean, people here know it’s _rumored_ to be haunted.”

Jack simply nodded.

“The location is shit,” McKinnon noticed. “All there is in like, forty mile radius, is a whole lot of nothing.”

“Surely they’d find a weirdo buyer who wanted to stay away from civilization,” Jack said. “The world’s full of such. The location isn’t the problem.” He stood up and looked at her. “And I saw a convenience store about six miles from here.”

She rolled her eyes. “That was a hyperbole. You ever even heard such a word?”

“A known local haunted house attracting kids looking for kicks?” Collins asked before Jack could reply and the two started bickering.

“Exactly.”

But Jack was frowning, his eyes dropping yet again. “There are two coffins in the basement.”

“What?” Brock gave him an incredulous look. “Now you’re telling us?”

“Didn’t think it was relevant.” He swiped his flashlight around the grave. “They’d fit. Both of them.”

“Are they empty?” Collins asked.

“Of course they’re fucking empty, he woulda tell us otherwise.” Brock massaged his temples.

He was too tired for this shit. He wanted to go to bed, the party be damned. It didn’t escape his attention that Jack didn’t confirm his words, but he also didn’t deny, so he let it go.

“Guys,” Mercer said, bringing their attention back to Westfahl, who hissed in pain with every move. “I don’t think he can stand up.”

Brock aimed his flashlight at Westfahl’s bare foot. It was swollen, but not too much, and crimson, especially around the scar after the gunshot wound.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said. “You’ll live.”

Jack and Collins grabbed Westfahl by either side and pulled him up to his feet; Westfahl bent his leg so the injured foot wouldn’t touch the ground, and using his teammates as crutches, he limped his way back to the house. Brock, Mercer and McKinnon followed them in a slow pace.

“Fuck, it’s Halloween,” Brock realized. “We’re just gonna shoot a buncha kids tonight, ain’t we.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mercer said. “Even if someone decides to summon spirits or demons, or whatever here tonight, they’ll fuck off when they see the lights.” She jerked her head at the lit up windows.

Brock closed the backdoor behind them just as first raindrops banged on the windows. Jack and Collins dumped Westfahl on the couch in the living room, not too gently, and he hissed again.

“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere tomorrow,” Mercer looked over his foot once again in the full light. “And you better spend the night on the couch.”

“I can’t imagine myself climbing the stairs anyway,” Westfahl said.

“Too bad,” Jack said. “We already picked a bedroom for you.”

Westfahl narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m suddenly very glad I fell in that hole for some reason.”

“Remind me the name of the doc who cleared him,” Brock muttered to Jack though loud enough for the rest to hear. “I’m gonna fucking shoot him in the ass.”

“You need a drink.” McKinnon took a place behind the bar, opened a bottle of vodka and filled a shot glass. She shoved it into Brock’s hand. “You, too,” she said to Westfahl, filling another glass.

“Just don’t mix it with your painkillers,” Mercer warned.

“Why not? It could be fun.” McKinnon smirked.

Apparently Westfahl’s stupidity had boundaries, as he swore to lay off his painkillers for the night. Brock sank down on the couch beside him. The Soldier who was done swiping the ceiling, was asked to find and bring more chairs. Soon, all of them sat in a circle, in chairs and armchairs in different colors and sizes, and various states of wear. McKinnon played music from her cell phone, but the quality was mediocre at best and it got annoying fast, so she turned it off.

“Are we drunk enough for ghost stories?” Collins asked when they were finishing their second bottle of vodka. Bourbon and rum had yet to be touched.

Brock suppressed a groan. He was starting to doze off against Jack’s shoulder, who ditched his chair in favor of the armrest by Brock’s side to be closer to the bar. His creative, dirty-minded teammates inventing ghost stories in an allegedly haunted house on a Halloween night was the last thing he needed. Next thing he knew they were gonna have a séance.

“Anybody wants to go first?” Collins asked and everybody looked surprised when Winter raised his hand. “Go ahead then, buddy.”

Everybody stared at the Soldier as his lips stretched in a grin, his eyes staying cold and dead, making him look as creepy as possible. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, and Brock found he was holding his breath. He was willing to bet he wasn’t the only one.

“Me,” Winter said.

Silence stretched as everybody waited for something more before realizing it was the end of the story. Jack was the first to snort.

“Congrats,” Brock said, not without a note of bitterness. “You grabbed a concept of jokes after thirty minutes of me explaining. Good job.”

“It was a good joke.” McKinnon smiled at the Soldier warmly. He returned the smile, his eyes no longer cold. Again, Brock could bet he kept them that way before for a better effect. He was bouncing back to himself. He would start acting like a real boy in no time.

Brock stood up. “It’s been very entertaining, but I’m on the verge of passing out in Westfahl’s lap.”

“Go ahead, boss. I ain’t complaining.”

“Fuck you, Westfahl.”

He exited the room as Collins told his scary story (that comprised more than one word) and climbed up to the first floor. There were four more doors he didn’t check yet, and he guessed one of them led to a bathroom. He found it on the first try; third door on the right, beside his bedroom. It smelled like something died in there. Upon a little investigation, he found the source of the stench: two dried rats in a begrimed bathtub. He grimaced in disgust. He was too exhausted for a shower, anyway, but there was no way he was taking one in the morning either. Not in this bathtub.

He took a piss and turned to the sink. The cracked porcelain and silver tap were less grimy than the bathtub, and there weren’t any corpses in it. There weren’t any towels either. He probably wouldn’t use them, anyway, if they were in a similar state to the rest of the bathroom. He wiped his hands on his pants and looked in a stained mirror. His baggy-eyed face stared back at him.

But it wasn’t the only face.

He turned on his heel, feverishly scanning the space behind him. There was nothing beside the tiled wall and the bathtub. He was alone in the bathroom.

He turned back to the mirror. His reflection looked at him in confusion.

He jumped when someone banged on the door. “Hurry up, I gotta piss,” he heard Jack’s voice.

Shaking his head to himself, Brock looked away from the mirror and opened the door. Apparently, he was so exhausted he started seeing things.

Jack looked him up and down with a frown. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“For two hours? It’s your new record. Prissy bitch.”

Brock blinked. Then he shook his head again. “I’m not drunk enough to fall for this, motherfu—” he trailed off, staring at the time on his cell. It was around two when he called it a night. Pissing and washing couldn’t take him over five minutes. And yet, his phone showed four in the morning.

He met Jack’s gaze. Jack was still frowning and certainly didn’t look like he was joking. He couldn’t be joking because there was no way anybody could change the time on Brock’s mobile as it was in his pants pocket all this time. Somehow, he lost two hours while staring in the mirror.

“Yeah, I was admiring my reflection and musta lost sense of time,” he joked though he was far from amused.

He must have fallen asleep. The second face above his shoulder in the mirror was a dream, nothing else. He had to have mad skills to fall asleep and stay upright, but hey, these things happened.

Jack still watched him closely. “Go to sleep,” he said finally.

“I was just gonna.”

Brock was walking into his bedroom, still thinking about what just happened to him, when he saw the Soldier open the room that was supposed to be Westfahl’s. He paused with one foot already inside his bedroom and the other still outside.

“They made you take it, huh?” 

“It’s alright,” Winter said in a soft voice. “We moved the smelly chair to the basement.”

Brock nodded. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, commander.”

Of course nobody else wanted to sleep in the room with used condoms by the bed. The Soldier didn’t know what they were, so he didn’t mind. Did anybody throw them away? Unlikely; who would want to touch them?

Brock fully stepped inside the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The air smelled of rain rather than piss what pleased him. There was a huge wet stain on the carpet under the balcony door, so he went to close it before more rain got in. The drapes were dripping, the water turning the dust into thick gray rolls.

He stripped off his clothes and pulled on gray sweatpants and an old black t-shirt he slept in, the condoms still on his mind; almost like he was trying to distract himself from the two hours he just lost. It was unlikely the condoms were left there by Hydra operatives twenty years ago. Not that he took a good look, but they didn’t seem that old (not that he knew what a twenty-year-old used condom looked like). No, some kids must have left them, maybe even not so long ago. No wonder this safehouse was hardly used if it wasn’t really so safe with frequent visitors in the form of curious kids. That was probably what happened in 1989. A bunch of kids were snooping around while a STRIKE team was inside and got offed. The fact that half the team didn’t make it must have been related to their mission itself, not the safehouse. There were probably articles about kids going missing after a trip to an old spooky house and bam, a rumor about a haunted house was born. As simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Westfahl was borrowed from Dira Sudis. Mercer was borrowed from stoatsandwich.
> 
> McKinnon is an OC of mine and has appeared so far in [ Cigarettes and Pacifiers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715151/chapters/21914825) and [Battle of New York](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210460), and was briefly mentioned in [Things Jack Said Over the Phone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11064435/chapters/25141287) and [Takotsubo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537631).
> 
> Collins is an OC of mine, that was briefly mentioned in [Get ‘Im Tiger](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/post/162545113959/cuddling-prompt-anon-here-tbh-im-only-interested), where he met his gruesome end.


	2. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear some things up:  
> I don't consider this fic to be set in an AU. The fic is set in 2010. We know very little about the past of STRIKE and the Winter Soldier, and I'm sticking to what we know of. Because of this, the characters we can see in CA: The Winter Soldier survive this fic.
> 
>  
> 
> Non-con will most likely come up, but that will only be one scene in the last chapter.

Brock yawned, turned off the light and blindly got on the bed. A cloud of dust raised from the bedspread, making him sneeze, so he threw it off. He lay down in the middle, feeling oddly small. The bed was wide enough for three people to fit comfortably. The mattress and the bedding were surprisingly soft, making him feel like he was lying on a huge marshmallow. He had no trouble falling asleep at all.

He woke up less than four hours later, unsure why. The daylight had a hard time to get through the dirty glass of the balcony door and blackened drapes. The closed doors and thick walls successfully blocked the sounds from within and outside the house, if there even were any.

He looked down on the bed and saw a black tentacle slipping down. He blinked several times and rubbed his eyes. When he looked at the bed again, there was nothing there.

Of course there was nothing there.

He got up, wondering if he was still dreaming or still drunk. Either way, he needed coffee.

He went downstairs, passed the sleeping form of Westfahl on the couch, and entered the kitchen. It was a narrow room with a row of kitchen counters and a stove on the right side, and a fridge and a long, cheap plastic table with metal legs on the left. The table didn’t match the rest; Hydra had probably replaced the old one.

Winter was sitting in one of the dining chairs, chugging on his protein shake while McKinnon sleepily walked along the kitchen counters. There were an open coffee jar and a plastic cup on the countertop.

“What’re you doing?” Brock asked.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said. “I’m looking for a kettle.”

“What if there isn’t one?”

She gave him a grave look. Her brown eyes were circled, her face still puffy from sleep. “Scary story time is over, boss.”

She opened one of the cabinets, yelped, and jumped back. Brock looked inside and chuckled at the sight of a spider just standing there. Though to McKinnon’s credit, it was big, bigger than the ones under the ceiling in the living room.

“Arachnophobia isn’t funny!” she snapped at him, only making him laugh more.

Winter showed up with the broom in his hands—Brock didn’t even notice him go out—and hit the spider with it, leaving two other spider corpses and a ball of cobweb behind.

“Thank you, Winter. You’re my hero. You’ll get a badge.” McKinnon shut the cabinet and hesitated before opening another one.

Winter gave Brock an inquiring look. “Joke?”

“Yes, she’s joking.”

Winter pouted, as if he actually wanted a badge. To be fair, McKinnon would probably go as far as to make him one if Hydra didn’t make him forget the mission as soon as they were back.

“Found it.”

She pulled a rusty kettle out of the cabinet. She peeked inside, grimaced, and turned it upside down above the sink. A dead rat fell out of it.

“Make me one, too,” Brock said as he and Winter sat down at a table.

“Your wish is my command,” she muttered, still mad that he laughed at her.

Soon, the kitchen filled with the smell of coffee. McKinnon placed a plastic cup in front of him on the table and sat across from him. With time, more people entered the kitchen in various states of sleepiness, making more coffee and opening their MREs.

“Did you have any weird dreams?” McKinnon asked. She was livelier after her first cup and was currently going through a second one. “I had. I blame your fucking stories.”

Brock thought about the face in the mirror and the tentacle on the bed, but said nothing.

“What did you dream about?” Jack asked.

“It involved a madman with an axe and a dog with a Hydra logo shaved onto its head. And I was Brock in it.” Jack and Mercer simultaneously raised their eyebrows at that. “Don’t ask me what was going on because I’m not sure myself.”

“Nobody told a story about dogs with Hydra logos,” Jack noticed. “That’s all you.” He turned to Brock. “And you? Had any weird dreams when you fell asleep while taking a dump?”

McKinnon snorted. “Seriously?”

“I did not!”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I know you’re vain, but even you wouldn’t spend two hours looking in the mirror.”

 _But that’s what happened!_ Brock wanted to say, but Jack wouldn’t believe him. And if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what happened.

When Collins finally came downstairs, they moved the party to Westfahl, since most of the dining chairs were there. Westfahl was awake and sitting sideways on the couch, with his injured foot resting on the armrest. It was now more blue than crimson and even more swollen.

“Yeah, you’re sitting this one out,” Mercer said when she was done looking it over. “You need a cold pack, but…”

“I brought ice cube bags,” Collins said. “In case we wanted some for drinks.”

It was noon when Brock went upstairs to get dressed. He stripped, but paused when reaching for his clothes, his eyes fixed on the drapes. They were black with mold. They were already in this state when he woke up in the morning, but in his drowsiness he didn’t register it. He leaned in to take a better look.

“The fuck you’re doing?”

He turned his head to see Jack standing in the doorway. He was already dressed in his civilian clothes, with his bag hanging off his shoulder.

“Were those drapes moldy last night?” Brock asked.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t really looking.” Jack raised his eyebrow. “Does it matter? Just take it off if it bothers you.”

“I thought they weren’t.” Brock looked back at the curtain. Last night it was drenched from the rain, covered in wet dust. Not moldy. And fabrics usually didn’t mold overnight, not like this.

“We’re on a time sensitive mission, and you’re worried about drapes?”

Brock blinked. Jack was right. What did some stupid drapes matter? He turned back to the bed and put his clothes on.

“You gonna stare at me while I dress?”

Jack shrugged. “You have nothing I haven’t already seen.”

Not to mention he just got quite an eyeful. The sight of him studying drapes while naked must have been peculiar, Brock had to give him that. He left as soon as Brock pulled out an AXE can, anyway.

Only Westfahl was sitting in the living room.

“Stay on the comm,” Brock told him. “Something’s off, I wanna know about it.”

“Something like apparitions?” Westfahl smirked.

“Something like trespassers,” Brock said sternly.

Westfahl’s smirk faded.

Outside, Brock was surprised by fog so dense he could barely see further than a couple of feet. The rest of the team gathered around the SUV parked on the driveway. Jack was at the wheel. Collins used the fact that Brock was late and called shotgun. Winter was standing stiffly on the porch, suited up, the broom in hand. Brock raised his eyebrows at him.

“Soldier, what’re you doing with that broom?”

“It proved to be efficient in elimination missions, sir,” he said.

Brock just stared at him, this time sure he had a malfunction and they would have to eliminate the target themselves. Not that the Soldier wouldn’t be able to kill a person with a broom—he’d be able to make a kill using just about anything—but malfunction was a malfunction. They didn’t want him to suddenly decide they were the target. He glared at McKinnon; it was her fault. The effect was decreased by McKinnon not even looking his way as she was getting inside the SUV.

Brock turned back to Winter, wondering whether he should order him to leave the broom or stay in with Westfahl, when Winter grinned the same, familiar grin from last night, and it dawned on Brock he was joking.

“Jesus, Soldier,” Brock breathed in relief. “You’re outta control. No jokes during missions, got it?”

The Soldier frowned, slightly worried. “I’m not—”

Brock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Relax. It’s a figure of speech.”

Winter left the broom on the porch and followed Brock to the SUV. No wonder he was worried; being out of control meant pain, a lot of it.

The target lived on the other side of town, and it was initially estimated the ride from their safehouse would take an hour. Unfortunately, the fog forced Jack to drive really slow. The whole town was shrouded in it, it didn’t clear even in the center. After an hour and a half of driving around the suburbs and ten minutes of Jack and Collins arguing about it, Jack had to admit he actually managed to get lost, despite using a GPS. At this point, Brock had his face smashed against the headrest of the seat in front of him, Mercer’s hair tickling his chin, wondering how the hell they managed to westfahl the mission without Westfahl even being there.

Upon further investigation it was discovered that Jack typed in wrong coordinates.

“I didn’t,” Jack kept arguing after correcting his mistake. It turned out they were only a street away from their destination, so the mission wasn’t as westfahled as Brock had feared. “I typed in the right ones. It just didn’t listen.”

“Jack, it’s a sat-nav, not a horse,” McKinnon said. “It doesn’t have a mind of its own.”

Jack fell silent and stopped the car on the street the target lived at.

“Go,” Brock told the Soldier.

With his Teflon mask and goggles now in place, making him creepier than normal, the Soldier got out. Brock watched him strut away until the fog completely swallowed him.

“McKinnon, Collins, Mercer, I want you on the other side of the house. Guard the front door.”

They nodded and got out too, casually, unlike the Soldier. They looked around, as if they could see anything, pretending to just enjoy a brief walk.

“Fucking fog,” Brock muttered, tuning their radio to the local police’s channel. “If this doesn’t go westfahl…”

“It won’t.” Jack reclined in his seat, seemingly unbothered. He didn’t elaborate.

They spent a couple of minutes in silence, but almost two hours of a boring ride and a complete lack of stimuli caught up with Brock. He leaned forward in his seat, sticking his head between the seats in front of him to see Jack better.

“Hopefully,” he said, coming back to the topic as if no time had passed. “Can’t wait to be outta here.”

“The bed’s better than at home,” Jack said in the same bored tone. “Can’t complain.”

It was comfier, Brock had to admit. Softer, and somehow warmer. But it was too big for him, and made him feel irrationally uneasy. Like he was smaller and weaker. He remembered the dreamed up tentacle slipping off of it.

“It’s sorta creepy,” he said, meaning the whole house, not just the bed. “Dead rats and spiders aren’t jumping out at me at home.”

Jack turned in his seat to give him a look. “Maybe you should lay off whatever you’re taking if dead rats are ‘jumping’ at you.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “Do I have to explain what a figure of speech is to you, too?”

“I’m with Brock on this one,” came McKinnon’s voice in his earpiece. He almost winced; he forgot his mic was live. “If I find another spider again, it’ll be too soon.”

“It’s inevitable. Spiders are everywhere,” Jack said.

“You’re a bunch of sissies,” Mercer’s voice came. “Most elite STRIKE team my ass.”

“Shut up,” Brock told her. “Target’s status?”

“In the house,” McKinnon replied. “Not that we can actually _see_ her, but Winter didn’t report her escaping…”

“Soldier, status.”

“Target acquired,” Winter said.

They fell silent again, knowing all that was left to do was to wait for Winter’s confirmation of the target being eliminated. It came few seconds later, Winter’s voice emotionless as always.

“Where did you see dead rats anyway?” Mercer asked when Brock and Jack were still waiting for them to come back to the SUV. She sounded unhealthily interested.

“A bathtub. Couldn’t shower.”

“Is that why you stink?” Jack asked.

“I don’t stink,” Brock argued. “I used AXE.”

“You only made it worse. For such a neat freak, you seriously neglect your personal hygiene.”

“Maybe you like bathing with dead rats. I’m afraid it only made you dirtier, though.”

“I washed at the sink,” Jack said like it was obvious. “You wanna tell me that all those two hours you spent in the bathroom last night, it didn’t occur to you to do that?”

It did occur to him. He just didn’t have time for that.

“How long are you gonna bring that up?” he asked, annoyed that he was reminded again that he had _no idea_ what happened to him last night.

“And what’s so difficult about taking the rat and just moving it elsewhere?” Jack continued his rant like Brock said nothing.

“It ain’t even about the rats. The bathtub’s fucking filthy. And I didn’t see a bleach there, and even if I did, I ain’t a fucking housemaid.”

The door opened and the rest of the team got in.

“Knock that off.” McKinnon made a show of pulling out her earpiece. “You bicker like an old married couple.”

“They live together, they might as well be one,” Collins said.

Jack scoffed. “Try living with him for a while. You’re gonna beg me to take him back.”

“No, thanks, I’d rather move back in with my parents.” Collins grinned.

“Like you’re such a delight to live with.” Brock leaned back in his seat, folding his arms on his chest.

“Yeah? What’s so bad about living with me?” Jack started up the engine and drove off.

“So many things.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“You keep eating my food, your dirty clothes are always stranded fucking everywhere, and your fucking mood swings.” Brock counted off on his fingers. “You leave the kitchen looking like a battlefield, you never wash the dishes—and we have a fucking dishwasher, all you need to do is to put them inside.” Once he started, it was like he could never finish.

“At least I don’t come back in the middle of the night, drunk as fuck, with an even drunker cunt, trip over things and have sex wherever I land.”

“It ain’t my fault you’re such a loser nobody wants you, don’t take it out on me.”

“Maybe I should move out then.”

“Maybe you should.”

Jack said nothing to that, and he didn’t speak up till the rest of the ride. Brock spent the following half an hour glaring out the window while the rest of the team made awkward small talk and plans for celebrating the successful mission. But his anger dissolved, making place for unease and regret to set in. He stared at the impenetrable grayness outside with a grim frown, running over the words he spewed out without thinking. He and Jack argued often, especially about living together because no matter how much Brock liked him, no one else could raise his blood pressure quite as much, and vice versa. Usually, they just bickered about dirty dishes or blocking the bathroom. But this time was different. This time Brock said things he didn’t mean just to make it hurt, probably because the team was listening and he wanted to show off, like hurting people one cared about was something to be impressed with.

He glanced at Jack. His eyes were fixed on the road, his lips pursed, and he remained silent. He didn’t act differently from usual—he wasn’t the most talkative person in S.H.I.E.L.D.—but the team knew him well enough to see he was angry. Even the Soldier sensed something was wrong, Brock was sure, though there was no way to tell with his mask and goggles covering his face.

“You can take that off,” Brock muttered to him.

He didn’t want to bring the team’s attention to himself, but they heard him well enough and glanced at him before returning to the discussion about their liquor of choice for the night. Jack still stared at the road.

The ride back took as much time as the ride to, as they made a stop along the way to stock on the alcohol; from what Brock gathered, they only had whisky and that one bottle of rum no one wanted to drink. They returned to Westfahl dozing off on the couch, which surprised no one because there wasn’t much else to do. They discovered he went through all the ice bags, so they made more, ate, and started drinking right away. Although it was only late afternoon, the sky turned black already, and it was hard to tell if it was dark and foggy or just dark.

Brock took a seat beside Westfahl on the couch and pretended to be a social butterfly while dreaming about the bed upstairs; he yearned to crawl under the warm heavy covers and lose awareness of his own existence for a while. Sleep deprivation was catching up with him, and soon he was yawning more than talking.

Jack was sitting in an armchair with a frown stuck on his face, far away from Brock. He had a bottle of scotch with himself, so he didn’t need to be close to the makeshift bar. He didn’t join the conversation and didn’t as much as look at Brock even after his fourth glass, although he smirked whenever McKinnon said something funny. Anger boiled Brock’s blood again, but he did his best to ignore it. No matter what he had said, Jack should have come around by this point, and him still acting like an offended little girl was supposed to be a punishment. Brock wasn’t going to fall for this, wasn’t going to let this affect him, so he continued to ignore Jack and act as unbothered as possible.

At some point, Jack and McKinnon went out for a smoke and the living room became quieter. In the silence that fell, Brock heard a weeping sound, coming from outside. He looked at the windows with a slight frown, but he couldn’t see anything through the impenetrable darkness.

“You hear that?” he asked, a little too drunk and far too exhausted to worry about what his teammates might think.

“What? No,” Westfahl said, uninterested, and took a big gulp of whisky.

Collins froze with his glass halfway to his mouth, listening in. “It’s windy,” he said finally.

Brock could hear the wind, too. It made the old house creak here and there. But the weeping…

 _It’s the wind howling_ , he told himself. Because of course it was. What else could it be?

No less calm, he forced himself to look away from the window. Jack and McKinnon were still outside. They should have been back already. How long did it take to finish a smoke? His eyes flicked back to the window without his consent, and he felt an urge to go outside. Just for a second. The weeping sound ceased.

He stood up, swaying on his legs. Maybe he had one drink too many. He surely didn’t get enough sleep.

“I’m turning in,” he said, stomping over Westfahl’s sprawled legs. His foot was less blue, but still swollen.

“It’s not even eleven yet.” Westfahl checked the time on his phone. “Barely ten.”

“So what, I’m tired. You sat on your ass all day, while we did actual work,” Brock grumbled.

“Jeez, what’s up with you today?” Westfahl asked. “You're actin' like something bit you in the dick.”

“To be fair, boss, you also sat on your ass all day,” Mercer added.

Whatever, Brock didn’t have enough energy to argue. He left the living room without as much as another word and paused in front of the staircase. His eyes lingered on the backdoor. He heard the weeping sound again, shrill and raising hair on his skin.

_It’s just the wind._

He couldn’t shake off the feeling that wind sounded different from this.

He would never own up to the yelp that tore itself out of his throat when something cold close itself on his wrist. It turned out to be just the Soldier who took a hold of him with his metal hand.

“What?” Brock spat though it wasn’t Winter’s fault he let himself get scared.

“I hear it, too,” he said in that eerie quiet voice of his. It didn’t calm Brock’s heart down, not one bit. “It’s crying for help.”

Brock stared at him with his eyes wide. In the poorly lit corridor, the Soldier looked like something straight out of nightmares; cold pale eyes staring Brock down through greasy strands of hair hanging in his face, his posture a little hunched. His metal arm was catching glints of light, looking like something out of this world. He was still in his leather combat suit, straps hugging his muscular form. Just this sight was enough to scare the living daylights out of people, especially when he was holding a weapon; Brock saw terror on his victims’ faces too many times.

Brock was afraid of the Soldier as much as he was of guns, which was only when they were aimed at him with the safety off. But the Soldier wasn’t just a weapon, despite what Pierce might have wanted all of them (including the Soldier himself) to believe, and he sometimes uttered creepy shit he couldn’t explain.

“Maybe we should let it in,” Winter said.

Brock yanked his wrist out of his weak grip and took one stumbling step towards the staircase.

“It’s the wind howling, Soldier,” he said firmly. “There’s nothing to let in.”

The weeping sound ceased again, like it never even existed. But knowing he wasn’t the only one to hear it made Brock feel a little better, no matter what Winter thought it was.

Winter stayed silent for a moment, still staring at Brock, but his eyes were unfocused. Brock was about to turn and climb upstairs when Winter spoke again.

“I think it’s gone now.”

Brock shook his head, a little exasperated. “The wind stopped howling for now. It will again, but it’s just that. The wind. Got it?”

He didn’t wait for the Soldier to reply and walked up the stairs, his eyes flicking to the backdoor for the last time.


	3. 3:37 AM

Brock paused in front of the bathroom door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It would be alright; he wouldn’t fall asleep again. He would wash himself at the sink and leave.

But it wasn’t falling asleep he was afraid of. He was afraid he’d see something in the mirror again, something that wasn’t there. He knew it wasn’t real, that it was his mind playing tricks on him, out of exhaustion and paranoia. He was a rational man; he knew it wasn’t… _ghosts,_ or whatever. But he still didn’t want it to happen. It was like with hallucinations during sleep paralysis; just because they weren’t real didn’t mean he didn’t mind having them.

He walked in the bathroom, turning on the lights. Looking in the mirror was the first thing he did. He saw himself, with tired eyes and wrinkles deepened by exhaustion, the bathtub to his left (two rats still at the bottom) and the closed door behind him. And that was it. No strange faces, no movement, the light didn’t even flicker or dim. He huffed a laugh of relief. Why was he even afraid in the first place?

He scrubbed himself quickly, went to his room and changed into his pajamas. His eyes kept wandering to the moldy drapes and the balcony door behind them. He strained his ears, but all he heard was creaking of the walls under the wind’s pressure.

He lay down in bed, a thought he should get rid of those disgusting drapes crossing his mind before sleep overcame him.

At first, he wasn’t sure what woke him up. He wasn’t even sure if he ever fell asleep. The room was still dark, he was still sleepy, the wind was still howling outside, and he felt like he only just lay down.

He reached out for his phone and checked the time; it was 3:37 am. He was about to turn over and go back to sleep when the floor creaked. Footsteps. He held his breath, listening. Somebody was pacing just outside his door.

It must have been one of the teammates— _who else could that be?_ —they must have just finished drinking and were turning in for the night. There were six other people in the house, one of them walking around was nothing weird. There was nothing to worry about.

Still, the house had a history of being visited by curious kids at night. Just because it was probably a teammate didn’t mean it surely was. It would be safer to check. No one could blame him for checking.

He shivered upon leaving the warmth of the bed; the temperature outside must have dropped a bunch of degrees. He took a gun out of the open bag beside his bed and, barefoot, he walked out of the room.

The corridor was dark, the silence interrupted only by Westfahl’s snoring coming from downstairs. The door to Winter’s bedroom was tight shut, so was the bathroom door. There was no light seeping through the crack between the floor and the door, so nobody was inside.

Brock was about to get back to his room when he heard something akin to a whisper. It came from the room at the end of the corridor. The door was cracked open. The floor creaked beneath Brock's weight as he made his way towards it, almost making him jump. He gently pushed it open.

He didn’t quite understand what it was he saw. Not everything.

There was a bed, a little smaller than the one he slept in. Jack was sleeping on the edge. Brock knew it was Jack although he couldn’t see him so well in the dark. That part he understood, there was nothing unusual about it.

There was _something_ standing beside the bed, hovering over Jack’s sleeping form. It looked humanoid, but it wasn’t a human; more like a shadow of one. Brock blinked and kept staring at it, to make sure it was really there, that he was really seeing it. It didn’t disappear; it didn’t even notice him. It bent over Jack, reaching out its tentacle-like arms, attempting to grab—

Brock aimed and pulled the trigger.

The shadow thing seemed to dissolve into nothingness right after a bullet pierced it. Jack sat up in bed, wide-eyed, his hand patting around for a weapon that wasn’t there. Soon, there were doors opening and footsteps running on the staircase.

“Brock,” Jack said in a rough voice. “What are you doing? Put the gun down.”

Brock dropped his arm, his thumb clicking the safety on. Only then Jack got out of bed and approached him, frowning.

“What happened?” Brock heard behind his back.

He looked over his shoulder. The light flickered on, burning his eyes and making him squint; McKinnon and Mercer stood right behind him, both armed with handguns. Winter emerged from his room as well. He wasn’t holding any weapons, but he didn’t need to.

Brock looked back at the spot where the creature disappeared. “I saw…” he trailed off. What did he see? “I thought I saw…”

He was babbling. Jack grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to look him in the eyes, but Brock was still fixed on this one spot beside the bed.

“Nothing happened,” Jack said finally. “The commander got drunk and was sleepwalking. With a gun. Go back to sleep, y’all.”

The girls exchanged looks and went back upstairs. Jack steered Brock around by the shoulders, forcing him to finally tear his eyes away from the spot, and led him back to his room. Winter watched them from his door until they walked inside.

“I was sleepwalking?” Brock sat down on the bed. He felt oddly dizzy, black spots disturbing his vision.

“You tell me. What were you doing in my room, shooting at me?”

Brock snapped back to reality. He looked up at Jack, who was staring him down with his arms crossed on his chest.

“I didn’t shoot at you. I… There was…” What? What was that he saw? A shadow? He shot at a shadow?

“What?” Jack asked, echoing his own thoughts. “What did you see?”

“You don’t think I’d shoot you, do you?”

“Fuck if I know, Brock.”

“I wouldn’t! How can you think that?”

Jack didn’t answer that question. “What did you see?” he repeated instead.

“Something.” Brock rubbed his eyes. “You’re right. I was sleepwalking. Musta been. It was realistic, but I feel more awake now than I did then.”

He was awake.

Right?

Jack sighed. “Go back to sleep.” He reached out for his hand, prying it open to take hold of the gun. “I’ll take this. You shouldn’t have this lying around if you wanna sleepwalk.”

Brock let him take the gun and lay down, slipping underneath the covers.

“I don’t sleepwalk,” he realized.

Jack shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“You gonna move out?”

Jack watched him in silence for a while before offering a small smirk. “Course not. Where would I go?”

“You’re a dick,” Brock said, turning his back at him.

“We’re a good match then.”

“Did you just call me a pussy?”

“Always heteronormative.” Brock could _hear_ Jack rolling his eyes. “Never change.”

The lights went out and Brock held his breath, listening to Jack’s footsteps crossing the corridor to cease after a click of his door shutting close. He kept listening to the deafening silence after that, waiting for… something. Other footsteps. Whispering. Weeping of the wind. Anything. The moment he stopped hearing Jack’s signs of life, the proof he wasn’t alone, that he was safe and everything was okay, fear took a hold of him, refusing to let go. In the darkness of the night, Brock was stripped of his pride, and his rationalism, and his masculinity, his overactive imagination and feral fear of the unknown taking over. His skin broke in sweat under the heat of the covers, but he was too afraid to move, or to open his eyes.

The memory of the shadow thing stood before his closed eyes, and he remembered the details. The long, slender arms of the thing, fingerless hands, reminding him of tentacles—he remembered the tentacle slipping off his bed—he had to be dreaming, he was dreaming all that up. The atmosphere and the rumors about the house got to him, and nothing more. Just a dream. Nothing to be afraid of.

He didn’t open his eyes until the sky brightened. He didn’t fall asleep, either. Fully lit, his room looked real and safe, despite the mold growing on the drapes and in the corners of the ceiling. There was a spider walking up the opposite wall, in its weird, quick gait, and he almost welcomed it as a sight of something normal and expected.

His head spun when he sat up, and he blinked several times, waiting for his vision to clear from dark spots. He needed to sleep more. He would, as soon as he was out of this blasted house. And he would be, soon; extraction was planned at 1130 hours. Until then, coffee was his only salvation.

He changed into the clothes from yesterday, not caring they weren’t exactly fresh. He exited the bedroom and paused at the staircase, looking at Jack’s door. It was cracked open again, and he briefly wondered why Jack didn’t close it.

But he did close it. Brock heard him do it.

Maybe he went to the bathroom later. Or got up already. Something like that. It for sure wasn’t a shadow person opening that door because shadow people didn’t exist.

Brock forced himself to walk down the stairs. Like on the previous day, he passed Westfahl asleep on the couch and entered the kitchen. Only Winter was sitting at the table, his protein shake in hand. McKinnon’s coffee jar stood on a kitchen counter. Feeling Winter’s cold stare on him, Brock grabbed one of the plastic cups and poured a hearty amount of aromatic ground coffee beans inside. Then, having checked if no spiders crawled inside the kettle, he put it on.

He turned around, leaned his hip against the counter, and met the Soldier’s stare. The Soldier didn’t drop it. He barely even blinked. It unnerved Brock for some reason. Maybe he was still on edge from the previous night.

“It’s impolite to stare,” he said.

Only then Winter looked down. He took a gulp of his shake, his emotionless expression in no way indicating if it was tasty. The tech team usually had the time of their lives inventing new flavors for the shakes. Usually. Sometimes they didn’t bother to make them taste like anything worth swallowing.

“What flavor?” Brock asked over the noise of bowling water.

“Sweet,” Winter said.

Brock nodded to himself. That was probably about as specific as Winter could get; Brock didn’t think he remembered how chocolate or fruit tasted, provided he had ever found out.

“What did you mean yesterday?” he asked. “When you said we should let it in. What ‘it’?”

He stared at the Soldier expectantly, unsure what kind of answer he was hoping for. If Soldier could hear what he did, maybe he could also see what he did…

Winter blinked. “The wind.”

“Let the wind in?”

He blinked again. “Yes.”

“It makes little sense.”

But he wouldn’t change his mind. Brock had said it was the wind, so it was the wind. It wasn’t in Winter’s nature to question the words of his commander. Brock changed his tactic.

“Did we let it in?”

He held his breath as he waited for the answer. The kettle behind him started whistling, the water inside boiling. He paid it no mind.

“The windows remained closed. Unless it got in when Rollins and McKinnon opened the backdoor, then no.”

He dropped the “Agent”. He would soon start acting almost normal. It was too bad their mission was over and he’d be put in cryo as soon as they reached their base.

Brock filled the plastic cup with boiling water and sat down at the table across from Winter. He didn’t learn what he wanted. Whatever Winter thought “it” was last night, now he was convinced it was the wind. Because it _was_ the wind, and Brock should stop asking weird questions or Winter would include them in his report to the Secretary. He was already in for a psych eval after last night. His team would have to report he fired his gun at his SIC while sleepwalking. He sighed loudly, rubbing his forehead, migraine growing behind his eyes. Great. He would have to include it in his own report, too, and he had next to no idea how to even begin to describe what happened, as he had no idea what did happen.

He took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes in delight as hot bitterness filled his mouth. Soon, caffeine would kick in, his migraine would pass, and he’d be functional again. Not invigorated, hell no, but functional. He was aware he was physically addicted, and he hated to be so dependent on something, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, not unless he wanted to spend a handful of days being useless, feeling like utter shit. Not to mention he loved the taste too much to resign from it.

No, his life without coffee would suck. 

At least it wasn’t drugs, he thought, as he watched Collins enter the kitchen, sniffing in some nose drops.

“You know you’re practically a drug addict?” he told him.

Collins looked at him with watery, bloodshot eyes. “I’m allergic.”

“It’s November.”

“And we’re staying at a house full of dust and fungi.” He sniffed loudly and made himself coffee.

Brock downed his coffee, the grains grinding between his teeth. He spit them back in the cup. He missed his coffee maker.

There was no need to worry about psych eval. They’d figure he was under too much pressure and force him to take a couple weeks off. Same happened with the sleep paralysis. _Sleep deprivation caused by high level of stress._ It helped that Brock never mentioned any sleep paralysis. Just like he wasn’t gonna mention what he saw, never again, to anyone. Not that it mattered; they’d be out of here in a few hours, and Brock would forget anything extraordinary ever happened.

Caffeine always helped him put his life back together.

The next person to enter the kitchen was Jack. He was already dressed and looking presentable, unlike Collins, who looked like he was about to go back to bed with his messed up hair, puffy eyes and comfy PJs still on.

“Mornin’,” Brock said, following Jack with his eyes.

“Mornin’,” Jack replied, sitting down beside Brock.

They were talking again then. Good. They could put the previous day behind them and get on with their lives like nothing happened.

Half past eleven, they were all dressed and packed, waiting on the porch and wandering around the driveway; all but Westfahl, who still couldn’t walk and was left alone in the living room. Mercer suggested they returned without him. Brock wasn’t proud to admit he entertained the idea for more than a second.

Twenty-five to twelve, there was no car in sight. Still, they waited. People weren’t always punctual—Greece was a nightmare, the drivers were always late there. Once, they waited for an hour for their extraction. Brock was so angry he could break necks with his bare hands.

A quarter to twelve, Brock sat down on the used porch stairs and told Jack to radio the British Hydra cell to ask them where the fuck their transport was. McKinnon, Mercer and Collins wandered close to the road, straining their eyes in hope to see an approaching car. The Soldier stood beside Brock, stiff and awkward.

Jack returned and just looking at his face, Brock knew he was bearing bad news.

“They can’t contact the driver,” he said, his eyes scanning the empty road. “Don’t know where he is, he disappeared for all they know. Said to wait another hour and drive to the rendezvous point ourselves if he won’t come up.” He jerked his head at the SUV parked on the driveway.

“Great,” Brock muttered into his hands.

McKinnon made an irritated sound, said something about this being bullshit and dropped her burned cig on the ground before walking back inside. Mercer and Collins followed her after a moment of hesitation. Jack sat down beside Brock and pulled out cigarettes.

“There must’ve been an accident on the road. Maybe if we had a TV in this fucking place, we’d hear about it.” He put one in his mouth and lit it up.

“My life is an accident,” Brock mumbled, wiping his face. If there was one thing in this world he hated with a passion, it was waiting.

“Aw, Brock. Want a hug?”

Brock sighed. “I hate you so much.”

“Nonsense, you love me.”

He could argue, but he was too glad that Jack wasn’t angry with him anymore for that, so they just sat there, saying nothing and watching the road. A black cat showed up at one point. It stopped in front of the house and stared right at them. Brock felt his skin crawl. The cat was weird somehow.

Instead of running away, like any feral animal should, the cat approached them. It stopped in front of Brock and meowed at him.

“What does it want?” he muttered.

Jack shrugged and reached out. It sniffed his hand and let him pet it.

“It’s domesticated,” he noticed. “Look, it has a collar.”

There in fact was a collar peeking out from between the cat’s thick, long fur. Jack held the cigarette between his teeth and grabbed the cat to place it in his lap. He inspected the collar.

“It has an address.”

“I don’t fucking care.” They were a special mission unit, not a pet care company.

“You guys wanna freeze out here?” McKinnon returned, cigarettes in hand. She looked at Jack’s lap and squealed. Brock cringed. “A kitty!”

She sat down beside Jack and stuck out her fist for the cat to headbutt it. When it did, she petted it. The cat seemed content with the attention, purring, curled in Jack’s lap. Brock remembered the tabby that belonged to Ms. Mason from 303A. The little shit walked around the entire apartment block like it belonged to it and hissed at everybody who came close.

“Anybody has any meat?” McKinnon asked.

“Doubt it,” Jack said.

Brock was sure he had chicken in his barely touched MREs, but didn’t speak up. He might still want to eat it, with how things were looking up. Speaking of, he didn’t have breakfast yet. He wasn’t hungry, but he figured it would do him well to try to force some food down. He stood up.

“You guys tell me when you grow up. And if anybody comes up.”

He went inside, followed by Winter, set his bag down on the kitchen table and pulled out a pack of crackers. He sat down and looked out the window. He could see Jack and McKinnon sitting on the porch stairs, cigarette smoke floating above their heads, the cat stretching on the ground at their feet. Their mouths were moving and Brock wondered if they talked about him. If they thought he was acting weird. Maybe they were sorting out what to put in their reports. Jack told the others to omit this or that before, to get Brock out of trouble.

An hour passed, and their transport didn’t show up. They packed themselves into the SUV (Westfahl needed Winter and Collins’ help) and Brock flicked the ignition.

Nothing happened. The engine not only didn’t start up, it didn’t even make a noise like it tried. He turned the key again, with the same result.

He sighed, his body slumping against the backrest. “Somebody tell me this isn’t happening,” he asked. “Lie if you have to, but tell me we’re getting outta here today.”

“We’re getting outta here today,” McKinnon said. “Did it make you feel better?”

Brock shut his eyes. “No.”

Jack got out and raised the hood. He stared inside for a moment, not saying anything. Brock rolled down his window.

“And?”

Jack shrugged. “Everything looks fine.”

“Yeah, right.” Collins rolled his eyes and got out as well. He stopped beside Jack and leaned in to take a better look.

“And?” Brock repeated in a more impatient voice when the silence prolonged.

“Everything looks fine,” Collins mumbled, defeated.

Jack smirked at him briefly. “We’d have to check everything thoroughly. It’s probably some small thing that we can’t see right now,” he told Brock. “It’ll take a while.”

The rest left them to it and walked back inside the house to the accompaniment of Westfahl’s complaints that he had to jump again. Brock slumped in an armchair and rubbed his eyes.

“McKinnon, would you please radio these motherfuckers, tell them the car doesn’t fucking work and ask them to do something. I don’t care what. Just. I want outta here.”

McKinnon went to the kitchen to set up the radio there. Westfahl kept complaining, despite having his injured foot propped up on a dining chair. Brock rested his forehead on his hands, imagined the same hands closing around Westfahl’s neck, tighter and tighter, until the strangled sounds his complaints turned into died out. He could do this, despite Westfahl being half a head taller than him.

“Dammit, Westfahl,” Mercer snapped. “Have mercy.”

Westfahl mumbled something unintelligible and fell silent. Brock closed his eyes in relief. His forehead was hot on his cool hands, and he felt a headache coming on. If he could just go upstairs and have a nap…

Collins and Jack returned, both with their sleeves rolled up, dirty with grease up to their elbows. Collins even managed to get some of it smudged on his face. Brock looked at them inquiringly.

Jack only shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Looks fine,” Collins said. “The tank’s full, nothing’s leaking. Should work just fine, but for some reason, it doesn’t.”

McKinnon returned from the kitchen.

“Extraction delayed.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Brock grumbled.

“We got a new op from Sitwell,” she said. “Since we’re still here and all. They sent us the details. Apparently, there’s a computer in this place, in a study room.” She frowned. “They’re gonna issue us a new car tomorrow at 0700 hours. Extraction planned at 2330 hours.”

Brock groaned. Another two days in this place. He missed his bed, and his bathtub, and his peaceful nights.


	4. The Trap

“Study rooms were usually in the towers,” Jack said.

“Fine.” Brock stood up. “I’ll check the one in the front, you check the one in the back.”

They climbed the stairs and split. Brock passed Winter’s room and opened the door that led to the tower chamber. He found himself in a small reading room with tall bookshelves against the walls, two armchairs standing in the middle, facing each other, a faded painting and a small, dirty window. There was only a handful of books remaining on the bookshelves, and Brock guessed the rest was sold or stolen. There was no computer, so he left the room and climbed to the third floor.

The passage looked the same as on the second floor, with faded, ornamented carpets, dirty walls with cobwebs under the ceiling, and the same amount of doors. He found the door leading to the room directly above the library and pushed it. There were no windows inside, and when the door closed behind him, the pitch black darkness swallowed him. He pulled out his flashlight and switched it on. He flinched and his free hand reached for a gun strapped to his thigh before he realized the room wasn’t filled with strangers. It was filled with Brocks.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed under his breath, letting his hand slip off the handle of the gun in his holster.

The walls of the room were completely covered in mirrors. He could see himself from every angle; even when he glanced up, there was a pair of hazel eyes looking back. At least the floor was wooden.

Brock turned around, his flashlight swiping the dusty floor. There was nothing else in the room; it seemed that the whole purpose of it were the mirrors. Who would want something like this in their house? Even Brock wasn’t so vain. Quite the opposite; the room made his head spin and his skin crawl. There was something wrong with it.

He spun around to leave and his blood ran cold. There was no door. Just mirrors.

“Hey!” he called out, praying for somebody to hear him despite the house’s thick walls. He touched one of the mirrors and tried to push. His hand left a sweaty print. His pale reflections watched him with their jaws clenched, their faces distorted by deep shadows. There were too many of them, multiplied by the mirrors all around. Brock behind Brock behind Brock. It was making him sick. He saw them move out of the corner of his eye even when he stood still.

He walked around, pushing the mirrors with his head ducked, looking for the door, but in vain. He didn’t know how many times he circled the room before he gave up.

“Help!” he called out again, louder. “Anybody? Can you hear me?!” He banged at the closest mirror for a better effect. It didn’t break like he hoped it would.

Nobody called back and he didn’t hear any footsteps. His saliva turned watery, his head spun, his stomach ached. Thoughts were running through his head miles a minute, neither of them useful. Had he been in worse situations? Sure. Did it make him feel better? Not at all. He was gonna die here, he was gonna die in a locked room made of mirrors. Jack would call it ironic. Maybe he’d even laugh. Brock imagined a speech he’d give on his funeral.  _He loved himself so much, he stared at his own reflection until he died,_ Jack's flat voice said in his head.

 _You’re not gonna die, idiot_ , his voice of reason argued (that was also suspiciously like Jack’s). Of course he wasn’t; even if nobody would hear him, they would look for him soon. It wasn’t like the room was in another dimension or something. Somebody would find him, eventually.

A swoosh of an opening door made him look up. There were even more reflections around him now, but it was Jack looking at him over his shoulder. He turned on his heel. It wasn’t his imagination or a dream; Jack really was standing in the doorway. Brock could leap into his arms and kiss him.

Jack looked around the room with a blank face. “Am I interrupting something?”

Brock suddenly got second thoughts about kissing him. “I couldn’t find the door.”

He gestured towards the door that Jack was holding open with one hand. The inside was also covered with a mirror, and it didn’t have a doorknob. When closed, it blended perfectly with the rest of the mirrors, making finding it impossible. The whole room was a trap, one that could drive its prisoners crazy. Brock couldn’t suppress a shiver when he thought about it, and he left the room hurriedly, brushing past Jack.

“We found the study,” Jack said, letting the door go. It was heavy enough to close by itself. “It’s straight ahead.”

The study room was about as empty as the library. The walls were of a dark, unspecified color, with lighter rectangles after paintings that had probably been sold. There was a lone bookshelf, with nothing but dust on it, a desk with a computer looking like it was Jack’s age, and a chair occupied by McKinnon. The computer’s screen was on, flickering and swimming, making Brock’s eyes sting.

“I don’t know DOS,” McKinnon warned.

“It says Windows 2.11,” Jack said.

“Yeah, not much better. First Windowses were running on DOS, from what I know.” She looked at the screen for a moment before wringing her hands out helplessly. “Yeah, I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re supposed to be a tech expert,” Brock reminded.

“A _modern_ tech expert,” she corrected. “Including everything that was considered modern back in 2003, when I joined. And that’s in theory, because I’m no longer so savvy in Windows XP, I’m sure. This thing—” She pointed at the screen, “—belongs in a museum.”

Jack brought their attention to a different issue.

“Do we even have internet connection?”

“Not wireless, that’s for sure. Hugh might help with this. He’s older than me, maybe he’s worked on Windows 2.11 before,” McKinnon said bitterly. “Unlikely,” she added under her breath.

Jack called Collins over, and he came in after a moment.

“Wow, Windows 2.11.” He put in his earpiece and switched on the mic attached to his wrist. “Hydra always gets the newest tech, don’t we?”

“Does your excitement mean you know it?” Brock asked hopefully.

“It means wow,” Collins explained without really clarifying anything. “Sitwell, do you copy? I’m at the computer, but you need to guide me. I’ve no idea how you want me to access the mail… The World? Seriously?” He bent down and started typing.

Brock and Jack exchanged looks, silently agreed to leave Collins and McKinnon to it and went downstairs.

Westfahl, Mercer and Winter were still sitting in the living room. Mercer was feeding the cat pieces of a cracker.

“Who let the cat in?” Brock asked.

Westfahl shrugged. “It let itself in.”

Brock decided to leave it and sank in one of the armchairs. Jack squatted down on the floor to pet the cat some more.

“What’s wrong with you?” Mercer asked the cat when it ate the first piece of the cracker but not the second. “You don’t like my food?”

“Maybe it’d prefer a rat,” Westfahl suggested.

Mercer stood up with a thoughtful expression and went upstairs. She returned holding a dried rat by its tail with her index finger and a thumb. She stopped before the cat, but her eyes were scanning the corpse in her hand.

“It looks like something bit it.” She pointed at two punctures in the fragile body.

“A vampire?” Westfahl joked. Or maybe not, Brock could never tell with him.

Mercer laid the rat down in front of the cat. It sniffed it and turned its head, uninterested.

“Ah, screw you.” She kicked the tiny corpse under the couch and sat back down. “It’s not that hungry, apparently.”

“This rat is all but mummified, even a starving hyena wouldn’t touch it.” Jack stood up and took a seat in an armchair next to Brock.

“Speaking of food. We’re gonna run out of MREs by tomorrow,” Westfahl realized.

“You said something about a convenient store?” Mercer asked Jack.

“I saw one when we were first riding here,” Jack confirmed. “About six miles from here, straight way to the east.”

“Cool.” She stood up again, took her denim jacket that was thrown over one of the dining chairs, and put it on. “I’m going, beats sitting on my ass with you, losers. You, come with me.” She pointed at the Soldier and exited the room, not looking to see if he followed her. The Soldier glanced first at Brock, then at Jack, to make sure they didn’t disapprove, before standing up and walking out as well.

“She remembers the car broke down, right?” Westfahl snickered.

Brock rolled his eyes. “She’ll probably make Winter carry her when she gets tired.”

He toed off his sneakers and curled in the armchair. He still couldn’t shake off the unnerving feeling of being watched. His eyes kept darting to the walls and windows, his body giving a slight involuntary jerk whenever he saw his own reflection in the dirty glass. He wished the windows were covered with drapes, no matter how moldy. Even when he closed his eyes, the hair-raising feeling remained. He got a similar one whenever the Soldier was tracking him with his dead gaze, but the Soldier wasn’t there.

He shuffled closer to Jack, who was humoring Westfahl by pretending to be interested in whatever bullshit was falling from his mouth. Both Jack’s presence and the rumble of Westfahl’s steady voice were comforting, real. Something to hang onto when he spiraled down into tight, deafening darkness…

A thump of the footsteps running down the staircase jerked him out of his drowsiness. McKinnon came back, holding a phone in her hand.

“Where’s Collins?” Jack asked her.

She shrugged. “Reliving the ’89 modern tech experience. Anyway, I took pictures of the case.” She handed Jack the phone. “Where’s Winter?”

“Went out with Mercer for food,” Jack said. “We’ll brief him later.”

He leaned towards Brock, who already had his elbow resting on his armrest, and they inspected the pictures together. They were low quality, the colorful horizontal lines of the computer screen distorting the files and making them hard to decipher. Their target was a middle-aged man this time, rather than a young woman, named Samuel Forscher. He lived in the center of the town and was described as a shut-in, not leaving his home even for work. From Brock’s experience, that usually meant the target knew he was being hunted. Idiots, they thought they could hide from the Winter Soldier. Once Hydra wrote you off, it was over.

Brock handed the phone to Westfahl. Jack stood up, pulling out his cigarettes.

“You coming?” he asked Brock.

He knew Brock wasn’t a smoker, but he asked him if he would join whenever he wanted to discuss something in private, so Brock nodded and they went out to the backyard. Jack sat down in a porch swing that Brock didn’t notice before. It was rusty and stained with something, but at least it didn’t smell like cat piss, so Brock sat down beside him, and it started rocking slightly.

“I know this guy.” Jack wasn’t looking at him. He put a cig between his teeth and lit it up. “Do you?”

Brock shook his head, watching him with interest.

“Well, wanna know who he is?”

“Should I?”

Jack’s green eyes met his. “Look, I don’t _hack_ their fucking files. If they don’t want me to find something out, they should protect it better.”

“Tell that to Pierce. See if he hesitates before handing the asset a file with _your_ name in it.” Brock pushed his leg away from the ground, making the swing rock again without even acknowledging it.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll keep it to myself if you’re such a chicken.”

“I’m not,” Brock snapped. “Who’s he?”

The corners of Jack’s mouth twitched, and Brock realized he just stupidly let himself get manipulated. He frowned; it wasn’t the first time, not even the second. 

“He’s ours.”

“So it’s an inside job, so what. Not the first, not the last. You keep prying into these things, you’ll be the next one.”

“You don’t even know how I know him yet, and you’re already losing your shit,” Jack complained. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.”

“Sure I’m worried, idiot, you’re paying half of my rent.”

Jack looked upwards, silently praying for patience. “Anyway. Forscher was one of the scientists that researched this place in ’89. And now they want him out of the picture? Something stinks here.”

Brock stared at the gravestones, thinking it over. “Maybe it has nothing to do with that. Maybe he escaped with some other research. Refused to make mutated killer bunnies or whatever.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Mutated killer bunnies?”

“Hey, it was you who told me all those crazy stories about what they’re doing in those labs. You and your fucking need to read everything you see.”

Brock had been wary whenever Jack offered to share his knowledge ever since he described in detail Hydra’s experiments on dogs five years ago. Suddenly them keeping an amnesiac human being in a cryogenic chamber stopped being so freaky. Though to be fair, Brock had been to many Hydra labs since then, and he never saw them experimenting on live anything, so maybe Jack was messing with him that one time.

“Maybe, but what’s he doing here, then? Think about it, we’re the first team since then to stay here. And it’s… I mean…” Jack gestured towards the empty grave, its view partially blocked by the thick trunk of the willow. “You believe kids dug it?”

“You believe _ghosts_ did?” Brock mocked, purposefully not looking at the empty grave. He wondered if there were any more leaves in it. “And I don’t know, maybe the guy’s from here. No point in sending American scientists if there’s a perfectly capable Hydra cell on the spot.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences is what I’m saying.”

Brock said nothing to that. He stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets, and started walking along the gravestones, lusterless and faded from the sun, the lettering weathered, some of it unreadable. They were very old, dating back as far as to the nineteenth century. Jack finished his smoke and joined him. They walked in silence until a blow of cold wind made Brock shiver despite the leather jacket he was wearing.

“You okay?” Jack asked in a different tone than a couple of minutes ago. Gentler.

“Why?” Brock asked, not looking at him. He focused on reading the names on the gravestones. Mary Demise. Charles Demise. Antoine Demise. Antoine died in the same year she was born.

“You’re kinda jumpy.”

Brock shrugged. “That stupid trap room threw me off.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. There’s something wrong with this house. I’m not saying ghosts,” Jack added quickly, “because I don’t believe in ghosts, but…” He hesitated. “What did you see last night?”

Brock sighed. And to think he _almost_ forgot about it.

“Nothing.” He told himself he wouldn’t mention it anymore.

“I’m not gonna laugh,” Jack insisted. “It was just a dream anyway, right, you were sleepwalking. I’ll tell you my weird dream if you tell me yours.”

“I don’t care about your dreams.” Brock moved to the second row of gravestones. “Fine, I saw an apparition. Okay? Black and faceless, like a shadow.” He glanced at Jack over his shoulder. He wasn’t laughing, his face was carefully blank. “Stupid dream.”

“Yeah. So you got scared and fired.”

“I didn’t get scared,” he scoffed. “It was… doing something. To you. That’s why I fired.”

He could feel Jack’s stare digging into his back, but he ignored it, focusing on the gravestone before him. He read the name and froze.

“Look,” he said, his voice oddly tight.

 

**JACK ROLLINS**

**FEB. 22, 1875 – NOV. 4, 1910**

**BELOVED HUSBAND**

****

“Your ancestor?” Brock asked.

“Doubt it.” Jack only glanced at the gravestone, unfazed. “It’s a popular name.”

Having lost his interest in the gravestones, Brock turned away. He glanced up while passing the empty grave and halted at the sight of black letters on a previously blank stone. He came closer, squinting at it. A cold chill run down his spine as soon as he realized whose name he was looking at.

His own.

“You seeing this?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Jack’s voice was strangled. He cleared his throat. “Nasty.”

Brock pursed his lips, his hands clenched into fists. He turned on his heel and stomped inside the house and into the living room.

“You!” He reached Westfahl in two swift steps and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off the couch. Westfahl’s foot fell on the floor and he groaned in pain. “You think it’s hilarious, huh?!”

McKinnon and Collins jumped to their feet behind him, but didn’t dare intervene. For all they knew, Westfahl deserved what was coming to him. 

“What’s hilarious?” Westfahl asked, his face pale. He didn’t even try to fight back.

“My name on _your_ gravestone, written in a fucking sharpie!” Brock shoved Westfahl down and his body hit the couch, limp like a sack of potatoes. “You think you’re gonna get away with this, you’re dead wrong!”

“Dammit, Westfahl,” Collins hissed.

“I know nothing about no gravestone!” Westfahl whined, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “And I don’t even have a sharpie.”

“Why do you think it was him?”

Brock glanced at Jack who was standing in the doorway. He was trying to keep his face neutral, but he was about as pale as Westfahl.

“Because everybody else would write _his_ name.” Brock glared down at Westfahl. “Only he’s stupid enough to mess with me.”

“It wasn’t me, boss, I swear,” Westfahl whined.

“Brock, I think he’s telling the truth,” McKinnon said in a gentle voice, like she was addressing a violent psychiatric ward patient. “Think about it. He can barely move around with that foot, and he wouldn’t go near the grave. He could fall again.”

“Yeah,” Westfahl blurted. “I haven’t been in the backyard since day one.”

Brock took a deep breath, then another. Then unclenched his fists. “Well then, who did? There’s my name written on a gravestone, and it’s not fucking funny.”

Collins and McKinnon exchanged looks. Watching them, Brock knew it was neither. It wasn’t their style; they were simply too nice for something like this to even cross their minds. Brock glanced at Jack again, but it obviously couldn’t have been him either. He looked moved by what he saw, despite his attempts to contain it.

“Mercer,” Brock sighed. “I’m writing her up for this. It can be considered a death threat. It can even expose us, for fuck’s sake.”

“She wanted to bury me alive there,” Westfahl said, like it mattered to anybody.

Brock’s anger evaporated, leaving only a dim spark of spite before Mercer lumbered into the living room, panting and complaining about the pain in her feet, followed by the silent Winter Soldier. He carried all four plastic bags they brought. He set them on the bar and started to unpack.

“That store is fucking creepy, man.” Mercer slumped on a couch beside Westfahl, who shuffled slightly away from her. “ A sad little square block in the middle of nothing, with an old lady behind the counter as dried as those rats. Who even goes there? Dwarfs?”

Nobody answered her, nor even cracked a laugh. Brock didn’t look at her, watching the stuff that Winter was unpacking instead. He raised his eyebrow at the cans of cat food.

“Really, Mercer?” he asked.

She followed his line of sight and sighed. “It was his idea. But I bought us some beer. Help yourself.”

No one moved. Mercer looked around, her eyes lingering on every face.

“What’s up with you, guys? What did I miss?”

“We’re silently judging you,” Collins explained.

Mercer raised her eyebrow. “Because I bought cat food? I told you it was his idea.”

“Because you want to kill us,” Westfahl murmured, as dramatic as it was possible for him. Brock almost rolled his eyes.

“Excuse me?” Mercer asked.

“What, maybe I’m wrong?!” Westfahl snapped. “First you push me into the grave, then you write Rumlow’s name on a headstone? How fucking deranged are you, woman?”

“Wait,” Collins said. “She pushed you?”

“I didn’t!” Mercer protested, also raising her voice. “I don’t know what you’re on about!”

“Somebody _pushed_ me,” Westfahl insisted. “I felt it. And then they threw dirt on me. And when I looked up, I saw you.”

Mercer looked at Collins, then at McKinnon. “It wasn’t me. I was with you the whole time.”

“She was,” Collins confirmed.

“Well, _somebody_ did.”

Collins frowned. “Then how come you didn’t tell us until now?”

“I thought you knew. That you were in on this.” Westfahl looked at him with resentment.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jack said flatly. “You weren’t looking where you put your feet--a norm for you--and you fell. End of story. Don’t make this about you when it isn’t.”

“What is it about?” Mercer started to get impatient.

“About you writing my name on the blank gravestone in a sharpie,” Brock replied calmly. “I don’t wanna know why you thought it was funny, so save your breath. You’re in trouble, regardless.”

Mercer looked him in the eyes, her face serious. “Rumlow, I swear. I don’t know why you think I did this--okay, I can see why you would--but check my bags if you want, I assure you, you won’t find any sharpies.”

Brock held her gaze and a wave of unease washed over him. She was telling the truth. He looked at the faces of the rest of his teammates. If this was a prank, nobody was laughing. If he asked each of them again, they’d say they didn’t do it, and he would believe them. Which meant…

Which meant one of them was an excellent liar, because _somebody_ did it, and it wasn’t dwarfs. Brock studied the face of the best liar of them all, but quickly looked away.

Jack wouldn’t.

He considered asking the Soldier to check everybody’s bags for the sharpie, but ditched the idea. He wouldn’t find it; even Westfahl would know to get rid of the evidence.

“I’m reporting it either way,” he said after a while of tense silence. “The higher-ups will decide what to do with it.”

The atmosphere got lighter after this. They ate and fed the cat--it almost swallowed the can Winter gave him whole--cracked open a few beers, and soon Brock managed to forget about the gravestone. The memory of it returned to him when he was lying down in his bed, briefly, but mollified by the few beers he had had, he told himself it wasn’t such big a deal, especially at one in the morning, and drifted off to sleep.


	5. Lady in White

Brock woke up shivering. The room was still dark, and the balcony door wide open, letting in the strong frosty wind. The drapes were gone, so were his bed covers. He sat up, his body curling in on itself, his arms holding it tight to preserve warmth.

Someone--no, some _thing_ \--was standing on the balcony. Brock could see it clearly through the open door, despite the darkness of the night outside. It appeared to be glowing softly with its own light. It had a feminine shape, and it was covered from head to toes in fabric, like a cheap ghost Halloween costume, only without holes for eyes. The fabric was tight around the creature’s face, and Brock could make out the outline of its wide open mouth. Though it was unmoving, through the gentle sound of falling rain, he could hear its singing, in a voice that could only be described as angelic. He strained his ears, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He stared at the creature with his mouth slightly open. He shut his eyes and opened them again, and it was still there, singing relentlessly. He pinched his shoulder, hard, digging his nails into the skin, and it hurt.

The creature raised its hand and pointed at him. Like in a trance, Brock slowly stood up and approached the balcony. He squinted when the wind blew in his face. The stone floor was wet from the drizzle, the kind that was barely perceptible, but soaked clothes faster than a regular rain would. Brock’s body still shook, but he no longer felt cold. Standing now close to the creature, he noticed that it wasn’t covered in fabric; it was skin that grew over its face and neck, connecting it to its shoulders like a veil. It was repulsive, but not scary. Quite the opposite; he felt calm and light-headed as he listened to the creature’s quiet song, ready to do its bidding. Sparks of electricity jumped over its hand as it pointed to the wide space behind it. Brock almost understood what it wanted… If he only could focus enough, if the haze in his mind lifted…

It wanted him to retrieve something for it. Her. It wasn’t human, surely not, but it was feminine. She needed his help, needed him. He walked up to the wet iron railing and climbed on it. He would bring it to her. He knew where it was, saw it in his mind’s eye, it was down, deep down below…

Something grabbed his hips and he thrashed with a strangled yelp. His feet slipped and he fell from the railing, screaming. He stared down at the sharp rocks that lay on the ground underneath the balcony, but they weren’t coming closer. He was dangling in the air, strong arms of _something_ wrapped around his waist, keeping him from meeting his end. He wanted to keep thrashing and kicking to escape its grasp, but it occurred to him that in his current situation, it wouldn’t be very smart, so he let it haul him back onto the balcony before starting to fight back again. He knew that whatever held him wasn’t the lady he was supposed to help; that thing was dark and not at all singing; instead emitting sounds that sounded like…

“Wake up! Wake up!” it all but yelled into his ear. His cheek stung when met with a cold wet hand. “Brock, dammit.”

It was hard to see without the lady’s soft silver glow, but when he stopped thrashing and kicking, his feet slipping uselessly on the floor, he made out a tall, burly figure of Jack. He was pale and wet, his hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks, his lips pursed tight, his nostrils flaring as he breathed shallowly. Realizing it was him he was fighting all this time, not a shadow person nor another apparition, Brock clung to him. His body shook, numb from cold, and his soaked clothes felt heavy. Water was dripping from his hair into his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack hissed above his head, holding him close. He pulled him into the room that wasn’t any bit warmer. “You almost fucking fell--you did fall, for fuck’s sake…”

He kept muttering in broken sentences, his voice trembling almost as violently as Brock’s body was. He forced Brock to sit down on the bed and turned around to close the balcony door. He pulled the drapes over, and Brock noticed they were now fully black--if he didn’t know they used to be white (or as white as decades old drapes could be), he would have never guessed.

Jack leaned in and tilted his face up with a finger on his chin to take a closer look.

“You finally awake?” he asked.

“I was awake the whole time,” Brock said, or tried to, as his voice was shaking so much his words were almost intelligible.

Jack tugged at the hem of his wet t-shirt, and Brock raised his arms to help him take it off. He peeled his sweatpants off while Jack dug around in his bag until he found Brock’s towel. He threw it over Brock’s shoulders and started drying off his skin and hair. The towel felt warm, but Jack drying him off was a little awkward; Brock averted his gaze and jerked at the sight of a dark shape looming in the doorway. It didn’t escape Jack’s attention, and he turned to look, too.

“Everything okay?” the shape asked in Winter’s voice.

Brock sighed in relief.

“I don’t know,” Jack replied truthfully. “Can you bring me a towel and a dry shirt? Thanks.”

Winter disappeared to return with Jack’s towel and black t-shirt a minute later. Jack forced the t-shirt onto Brock before stripping and drying off his own hair and skin. Winter touched Brock’s cheek with his right hand and then checked his forehead. Brock couldn’t help but lean into it; it was so warm, almost hot on his skin.

“No signs of a fever,” Winter said. “I’ll make tea.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jack said though Winter left without waiting for confirmation. He looked down at Brock and gestured for him to move back on the bed.

Brock had been a little out of touch with what was going on around him up until this point, but as his body slowly warmed up, his shaking reducing to a slight jerk every few seconds, his mind seemed to regain its capability to think straight.

“What are you doing here?” He frowned at Jack, scrambling back on the bed.

Jack picked up the crumpled covers from the floor and threw them over Brock. His body jerked again at the sudden change of the temperature around it.

“The cat was yelling in the hallway so I got up to see what it wanted and heard a commotion in your room. Went to check. Good thing I did because apparently you decided to take a look at the ground from bird’s eye view. The fuck was up with that?”

Brock shrugged. He remembered dangling in the air just few minutes ago, and shivered at the thought that if it wasn’t for Jack, he’d be a bloody sack of broken bones. He remembered the cold, hard railing escaping from beneath his feet. His foot still ached where it hit the metal, and he would probably end up with a bruise as proof. That was real, that really happened.  But he also remembered the lady in white. He remembered her song. The need--no, the desire--to help her. Was she real, too? Now, that his reason came back, he started questioning it, but just a moment ago, he believed in her existence just like he did in Jack’s.

“That’s it?” Jack asked. “You’re gonna shrug at me? I save your life and get no fucking explanation for it?”

“We’re on the second floor, I wouldn’t have died,” Brock protested.

“No?” Jack snarled. “Shall we check?”

Brock glared up at him, a stinging retort ready on his tongue, but he stopped himself. Jack’s breathing was still shallow and quickened, his eyes wide. He was clenching his towel, but it didn’t mask the shaking of his hands. He was scared. Scared and angered by it.

Winter walked in, holding two cups of tea. He handed them each. Brock took his, grateful for something to warm him up from the inside, but Jack refused.

“I don’t want it.”

“You’re cold, too,” Winter argued. “You’re shaking. But whatever, suit yourself. You can babysit Westfahl tomorrow if you catch a cold.”

Jack made a face and took the cup. Brock snorted.

“I see you’re doing better,” Jack said bitterly, blowing at his tea. “Ready to tell me why you decided to jump off the balcony?”

It occurred to Brock that him standing on the balcony’s railing might have in fact looked like he was planning to jump. No wonder Jack was so riled up.

“I didn’t.” He avoided to look at him, instead watching Winter walk around the room, inspecting it. “What are you doing?”

Winter glanced to confirm Brock was asking him. “Something stinks.”

“Must be the AXE,” Jack said dismissively. Brock could feel his stare on him, but still refused to meet it. “So why were you there? What were you doing?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“You saw something again?”

Brock hesitated before sighing and dropping his gaze in defeat. “Yes.” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“So you were sleepwalking.”

Brock wanted to protest, but. It’d be easier to agree. It probably was what happened, anyway. That was the most likely explanation, one that made the most sense.

Jack walked around the bed, pulled back the covers and, ignoring Brock’s protests, he lay down next to him.

“What are you doing?” Brock demanded.

“You tried to commit both homicide and suicide while sleepwalking. You’re not sleeping alone.” He stretched until his back popped and made himself comfortable. “I think we’re fine now. You can go back to sleep,” he told the Soldier, who was inspecting the drapes.

The Soldier looked at them, nodded and exited the room, leaving the door slightly open. It unsettled Brock, but not enough to expose himself to the coldness of the room. He downed his tea and put the empty cup on the nightstand. Then he turned his back to Jack, tucked his hands under the pillow and waited for sleep to overcome him, which wasn’t gonna happen anytime soon if he kept his eyes open.

And with Jack’s arms wrapped around him.

“Is that necessary?” he asked. Jack’s skin was cool against his, and his damp hair tickled his neck.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Yes,” Jack replied simply.

If that made Jack feel safer, then Brock wasn’t gonna argue. If it was Westfahl plastered behind him, he’d have a reason to complain, but this was Jack. They shared beds before, in bigger state of undress. Like that one time in Sudan, when they lay on a mattress completely naked, because of how hot it was. Never before they cuddled, but Brock had definitely had worse nights. And it wasn’t like they cuddled now. It was a tactical hold preventing him from hurting himself and others.

Jack woke him up before dawn, and only the cup of coffee he shoved into his hand saved him from being brutally murdered. Damn Jack, knowing how to placate him.

“The guys with the car will be here in fifteen.”

Jack was sitting on the bed, already dressed, but his hair was unmade, falling into his face. Brock reached out to pull it back without really thinking about it. They watched single strands return to their rightful place in Jack’s face.

“I should just shave it off.” Jack got up, pulling them back again.

“Nah.” Brock took a sip of coffee, burning his mouth in the process. Perfect. “It reflects the mess inside your head.”

Jack flipped him off.

“How did you sleep?” Brock asked.

“Best night of my life,” Jack replied dryly and left, probably to get his hair under control.

Brock drank his coffee, made himself look moderately presentable and went out to the front yard. The Soldier was walking along the driveway, and Mercer and McKinnon were sitting on the porch, the latter with a burning cig between her fingers and the cat in her lap. The sky was still dark and the little porchlight wasn’t giving much light. Brock checked his phone; they still had three minutes until the arrival of the driver.

Or rather, the British Hydra cell had three minutes before Brock walked there on his own two feet and fucking murdered everybody.

“Mornin’, boss,” McKinnon said. “I checked Mickiewicz’s address, it’s close to where Forscher lives. You think we could return him?”

Brock blinked. “What?”

“Mickiewicz.” McKinnon scratched the purring cat behind the ears.

“Firstly--what the fuck of a name is that? Secondly--are you out of your damn mind? You wanna knock on somebody’s door five minutes after we kill a guy? No, it came here by itself, it can find its way back.”

“It’s a him,” McKinnon corrected.

“He’s neutered.” Mercer sounded quite pleased for some reason.

“And I thought the name fit since we found him on Dziady.” McKinnon shrugged.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Brock told her.

“Well, Mickiewicz wrote a drama called ‘Dziady’, and it was celebrated on November 2nd.”

“Did I ask you to explain?”

The front door opened and Jack walked out, a cigarette in his teeth. He closed the door behind him and fished out a lighter from the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Good you’re here,” Brock said. “Help me think up a punishment for McKinnon.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“I tried to educate him,” McKinnon replied.

Jack winced. “Aw, Ann. That never ends well.”

“Fuck you both,” Brock muttered and walked down the stairs onto the driveway. The porch started smelling like an ashtray anyway.

“Now he complains, but when I bring him pierogi, he worships me,” McKinnon said, loud enough for him to hear.

“You know the difference between food and education.”

If McKinnon said something else, Brock didn’t hear; what he heard was an increasing sound of engines, and when he looked at the road, he saw lights of two cars approaching.

“They’re here,” he called over his shoulder.

Jack joined him when the black SUVs stopped in front of the house. The engines died and two men jumped out on the road: one short, burly and in his fifties, the other tall and lanky, couldn’t be more than twenty-five.

“Hail Hydra,” the older barked at them and without further ado, he walked to the broken SUV and got inside. Brock could see him flicking the ignition, but just like the previous day, the car didn’t even make a noise.

“Hail Hydra,” Brock replied. “So you can bring a car for a mission, but not for extraction?”

The younger man looked at him with big, fearful eyes. Brock found he liked it. It was good to know the commander of STRIKE meant something to _some_ people.

The older one jumped out of the car and made a gesture. The younger one nodded, went back to his car and returned with a tow rope. They towed the broken SUV and parked one of the good ones in its place.

“Look at these motherfuckers, acting like we’re not even fucking here,” Brock said with his arms folded on his chest.

Jack only grunted in agreement.

The men drove off without as much as a goodbye.

“They still don’t know what happened to the other one.” The Winter Soldier showed up on Brock’s other side seemingly out of nowhere, making him flinch. “I heard them talking about it.”

“Whatever.” Brock turned away from the road. “We have people to kill. How’s Westfahl?”

“Still claims he can’t walk,” Mercer said.

Brock didn’t know if he was more pleased or irritated with this. “And where’s Collins?”

The girls shrugged simultaneously.

“Well, get him here.”

This time McKinnon was driving. Jack and Brock raced each other to the front seat. Brock was standing closer, so he won, and Jack was forced to sit in the backseat with the Soldier.

They arrived at their destination half an hour later. McKinnon parked the car under a tree in an alley that looked unattended. The Soldier got out of the car and passed it so stealthily Brock didn’t even notice.

“You got the local police channels?” He asked Collins who was sitting in the back with the radio. They were in downtown; should something go wrong, they might be forced to run. They were undercover and Brock would rather not have to flash his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge into any uniform’s face.

“Yep.”

“Mercer, Rollins, you’re with me.”

They got out of the car, and out of the alley onto a busy street. Brock counted the apartment buildings they were unhurriedly walking along.

“The gray one between the pizzeria and that pub.”

Jack nodded.

“Mercer, I want you in the back. Jack, try to get inside.”

Mercer and Jack sped up, leaving Brock behind. Mercer turned the nearest corner to surround the building, Jack walked up to the main door.

“One man in the front, another around the corner,” came his quiet voice in Brock’s earpiece.

“Bodyguards?” Mercer asked.

“I see them.” Brock eyed a tall man in an oversized black jacket, standing near the pizzeria with his hands in his pockets. “Soldier?”

“More inside,” Winter replied. “One in the room with the target, two in the corridor. Eliminate them?”

“No, focus on the target.”

“Target on the move.”

“Jack.”

“Got it.” Jack walked inside the building.

Brock unholstered his gun, knowing he would have to take care of the bodyguard near the pizzeria, and possibly the other one around the corner, but he waited for Jack’s mark before taking any action.

“Target’s escaping,” Jack breathed after a minute. He must have been stopped by even more guards in the building.

Brock shook his head to himself. Waste of money. A hundred of goons couldn’t save Forscher from the Winter Soldier. Brock would rather spend his on enjoying the last days of his life, if it were him.

Forscher stumbled out of the door and took a step Brock’s way, but upon noticing him, he turned on his heel and started running. Brock shot the bodyguard near the pizzeria before he even realized something was going on. The bullet tore through his carotid, making blood spray around. A woman in a white jacket and her twin girls shrieked.

“Pursuing,” Brock breathed to his mic as he ran after Forscher. “Freeze, police!” he yelled, hoping it would prevent the onlookers from calling the actual police. Collins kept quiet, so for now it worked.

Forscher was overweight and definitely not fast; he stumbled and halted whenever somebody got in his way. He was pushing people to the sides, leaving a clear way for Brock, who was catching up to him. He turned the corner into a less crowded alley. He ran past another goon in an oversized black jacket, who advanced on Brock, but Brock was ready for him; two shots were enough to send him down. Hearing the gunshots, Forscher cried out and fell to his knees with his hands up. Catching his breath, Brock circled him, gun trained on him.

“Please,” Forscher wailed in a voice that reminded Brock of Westfahl.

“I’ve got him,” Brock said.

“Where are you?” Mercer asked.

“I see you,” Winter breathed.

People that were previously walking the alley cleared, suddenly leaving just the two of them. Encouraged by the fact that he was still alive, Forscher, trembling with his whole body, looked up at Brock.

“I know you,” he spoke quickly, his words strangled. “You’re one of them. Don’t do this, you’re gonna regret it. You and I are the only ones left. They’ll turn on you, too.”

Brock frowned. Targets begged when they realized there was no other way out, that was nothing new, and he was trained not to listen. But what Forscher was saying was oddly specific, and, unfortunately for him, a complete babble for Brock.

“You’re staying there again, aren’t you?” Forscher continued in a slightly less wheezy voice when he noticed that Brock was listening. “Did it start already? Please, don’t do this. We can help each other.”

“The police is gonna join the party in four minutes, wrap it up,” came Collins’ voice.

“Target acquired,” Winter said. A red dot showed up on Forscher’s too tight, navy blue vest.

“Explain,” Brock said, knowing he had to keep Forscher on his knees for just a few seconds longer.

“You don’t kill me, give me protection, and I can get you—”

A bullet pierced his chest, the force of it throwing Forscher’s body onto its back.

“Mission accomplished,” Winter said.

“Yes, I can see that.” Brock walked past the body and blended into the crowd on the busy street. People passed the alley, unaware that a man just lost his life there. “Rollins, what’s your status?” There was no answer. “Rollins? Jack?”

He waited, but the answer still wasn’t coming. He sped up towards Forscher’s apartment building. If something happened to Jack, not even Winter would be able to stop Brock from setting the town on fire.

“Mercer?”

“Getting to the rendezvous point.”

“Good. I’m gonna check on Rollins. Soldier, stay on standby, I might need you.”

“Copy that,” the Soldier said.

Brock entered the block with his gun at the ready. The stairwell was empty; there were no guards, but also no Jack. Slowly, straining his ears, he climbed up on the third floor, where Forscher’s apartment was. The door to his room was cracked open. Holding his breath, he pushed the door to reveal a short hall leading to a living room with a kitchenette. On a dining chair at a small kitchen table a hunched body was sat. Brock’s heart skipped a beat.

“Jack.”

Brock hurried towards him. Having clicked the safety on, he put the gun on the table. He shook Jack’s shoulder.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

He raised Jack’s head to take a closer look. His brow and lower lip were split, blood leaving a trail down his face, neck and chest. His Kevlar vest was in its place and intact. Brock pressed two fingers to his neck and found a strong, stable pulse. Only then he let out his breath. The guards must have just knocked him out and left him here.

“You’re okay,” he whispered.

The police sirens could be heard from outside. Brock walked up to one of the windows opening on the main street and took a peek. Two police cars came to a halt at the body of the guard he had shot. There was no way he could haul Jack out through the building’s main door without them noticing. He would have to use the fire escape. He walked back to Jack.

“Jack, wake up. You’re too heavy for me to carry.” He shook Jack’s shoulder again, but he was being an asshole and stayed unconscious. Brock sighed and raised his mic to his lips. “Soldier, meet me in Forscher’s apartment. McKinnon, park at the fire escape.”

“Copy that,” McKinnon replied.

Winter didn’t reply, but he showed up in the room after a minute, as if he materialized out of thin air. Brock learnt not to question it. Winter threw Jack over his metal shoulder (Brock wanted to tell him to be more careful, but pursed his lips and said nothing) and they sneaked out of the building via the fire escape. The SUV was already waiting for them. Jack started to recover when Winter pushed him on the seat beside Mercer who was searching for a medical kit. Brock took his place in the front seat, but turned around to watch them. As soon as they were all inside, McKinnon slowly drove off, circling the building not to bring the police’s attention.


	6. Doppelgänger

“Don’t move,” Mercer said when Jack tried to scramble away from her in his daze. “You most likely got a concussion.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Jack slurred.

Brock rubbed his temples. “Like one useless agent wasn’t enough.”

“Westfahl’s useless regardless of the condition of his limbs,” Mercer said. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“And the mission’s complete, all there’s left to do is come back home.” McKinnon tilted the rearview mirror to look at Jack. “How many did you take?”

“Two,” Jack replied as Mercer wiped the blood from his face.

McKinnon raised her eyebrows. “You’re getting weak in your old age.”

“Two pairs,” Jack specified. He frowned. “I don’t really remember what happened.”

“Yep, definitely a concussion. Are you dizzy?” Mercer asked.

“No, but my head hurts like hell.”

They scattered around the house upon their return. After four days together, they were getting sick of each other, and everyone went to their room for a much needed alone time.

Brock’s room was already occupied by Mickiewicz, who was lying at the foot of the bed. Ignoring him, Brock sat down and fished an MRE out of his bag. He still had meals left, what shouldn’t come as a surprise considering he really hadn’t been eating that much the last few days. Even now he didn’t feel hungry, though he should, not having eaten anything since yesterday.

No wonder he was so tired all the time.

He opened a beef ravioli and started eating right away, not bothering to heat it up first. He tried not to focus on the taste too much; it wasn’t half bad, but not fantastic either. Mickiewicz seemed more interested in it than Brock himself as he put his nose directly into ravioli.

“Hey, you have your own food.” He pushed the cat’s muzzle away.

Mickiewicz seemed to understand. He sat down, turning his back to Brock, and fixed his eyes on the moldy drapes.

Brock was still eating, not thinking about anything in particular, when he felt Mickiewicz move on the bed. He didn’t pay it any mind until the cat started hissing. He looked at him; he was facing the drapes with his back arched and teeth bared.

“What?” Brock asked him, though of course, Mickiewicz couldn’t respond. “What got you so riled up?”

Mickiewicz ignored him and hissed at the drapes again. Brock tensed, remembering last night. It was probably nothing, the cat most likely saw a bird on the balcony, or something. He put the ravioli down, stood up and circled the bed to reach the drapes. He pushed them away with a back of his hand and froze at the sight of black handprints on the glass of the door.

“Yeah, that’s perfectly normal,” he muttered to himself. Mickiewicz stopped hissing and emitted a low yowl.

There were three handprints in total, and they looked like either tar or soot. They were rather medium-sized, and--his heart skipped a beat when he realized it--while two were made on the outside, one was made on the inside.

He took a stumbling step back and looked around as if expecting somebody to jump at him out of a corner. But the only change in the room was that Mickiewicz was now finishing his ravioli.

He wasn’t hungry, anyway.

Focusing on getting his breath back under control, he left the room and crossed the hall to Jack’s bedroom. He knocked softly on the door in case Jack was sleeping--he was supposed to rest after all--and when no answer came, he cracked it open and peeked inside. The room was empty. Puzzled, Brock decided to look for him downstairs, where he heard a couple of voices. He passed the empty living room and walked in the kitchen where Mercer, Westfahl and the Soldier were playing cards.

“How’s your foot?” Brock asked Westfahl.

“I can stand on it,” Westfahl said, his mouth stuffed with M&Ms. “But not walk yet.”

“Dammit, Westfahl.” Mercer wiped off a drop of Westfahl’s spit that landed on her cheek and looked up at Brock. “Sitwell called. Extraction delayed. They can’t take off due to bad weather conditions.”

“Storm is coming,” Winter added softly, his eyes fixed on his cards.

“So when’s the next extraction planned?” Brock asked.

Mercer shrugged. “They’ll let us know.”

Winter put one of his cards down. “Mau,” he said.

Brock and Mercer exchanged looks.

“Well, they better hurry,” Brock muttered.

His impatience was no longer just about the house making him uneasy, but about the safety of the whole team. The longer Winter was out of cryo without a proper maintenance, the bigger risk of him malfunctioning was. He was fine now, but tomorrow it could change, and Brock didn’t want to deal with that again.

“Where’s the rest of the team?” Brock asked as Mercer threw a couple of cards down and Westfahl drew four new ones, grumbling.

“Rollins is in the library,” Mercer replied, correctly guessing which teammate Brock was really asking about. “Against my recommendation, but I can’t exactly haul him to bed myself.”

“Shoulda made Winter press him down with his metal hand.”

She snorted. “I don’t care about his well-being this much. It’s his business if he wants to suffer.”

Brock found Jack curled in one of the armchairs with an open book in his lap, but his eyes were closed. His jacket, Kevlar vest and jeans were gone, replaced by a hoodie and sweatpants.

“Hey.” Brock rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Hum?” Jack cracked one eye open to look at him.

“You were supposed to rest, not to read.”

“These books are pretty rare.” His split lip reopened, the small cut filling with blood. “And old. Look, this is the first edition of ‘Villette’.” He sucked on his lip to keep it from bleeding.

Brock didn’t look at the book. He didn’t even know what 'Villette' was. “How are you?”

“I’m considering stealing Westfahl’s painkillers.”

“You’d have to ask Mercer first.” He realized he was still squeezing Jack’s shoulder, so he shoved his hand in his pocket instead. “Come on, you’ll be more comfortable in bed. You can take that book with you if you really wanna.”

“Can I? Wow, boss, you’re so thoughtful.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “Coming back to your usual asshole self, huh?”

“I never left.”

Jack stood up, and they exited the library. Brock looked at the door to his room and stopped in his tracks. He was sure he left it open in case Mickiewicz wanted to leave. Now it was closed.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Were you in my room?”

“Why would I?”

“Somebody was.” Brock remembered why he was looking for Jack in the first place. “There are handprints on the balcony door.”

“Are you sure you weren’t the one to leave them? Last night, when you tried to kill yourself?”

“I didn’t try to kill myself. And the handprints aren’t mine; they’re black, and the last time I checked, I wasn’t finger-painting with tar. And now the door’s closed.” He gestured towards it. “Though I left it open.”

“So what?” Jack shrugged. “It could just close by itself. It really doesn’t mean somebody’s sneaking into your room to sniff your underwear.”

Brock narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s oddly specific.”

“That was just a hypothetical example.”

“Just a first thing that came to mind, huh? I knew you were a closeted creep.”

But his amusement faded away when he looked back at the door. Holding his breath, he turned the doorknob and pushed it open. He met with a slight resistance, which turned out to be the wind blowing in through the wide open balcony door.

“See, that’s why the door closed,” Jack said, when they walked inside and the door slammed shut behind them. “A draft.”

“Yeah, a draft closed the door,” Brock agreed, reaching the balcony and shutting the door. “But what opened this door?”

“You sure you didn’t leave it open?”

Brock didn’t dignify that question with an answer, shooting Jack a glare instead. Jack shrugged in an apologizing manner and jerked his head at the door.

“So where’re those handprints?”

Brock blinked, dumbstruck; while the glass was as dirty as ever, the handprints were gone.

“They disappeared,” he mumbled, feeling chills run down his spine. He touched the spot where he remembered seeing the one on the inside. “They were right here, ten minutes ago, I didn’t imagine them! Somebody musta wiped them off! And last night, I don’t think I was sleeping either, there really was—” he trailed off, at the sight of Jack’s expression. “I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But that’s what you just thought! I’m not crazy!”

“Hey, calm down. I know you’re not. I think you’re just confused. You haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I know what I saw,” Brock said.

He was still examining the door when Jack squinted at something in the corner.

“What’s this?” He stood up on his tiptoes and reached for a corner of the wallpaper that was peeling off. He pulled, and it came off easily, revealing the wall underneath completely covered in a green and black mold.

“Holy shit,” Brock breathed as his stomach turned at the sight.

“That can’t be very healthy.” Jack let go of the wallpaper and wiped his fingers on his pants. Then he took Brock’s open bag and threw it onto his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Brock asked.

“You can’t stay here. Broken balcony door and mold everywhere. Westfahl’s crippled, I got a concussion, you getting sick is literally the last thing this team needs,” Jack explained, leaving the room. “And I’m not letting you sleep alone, so you might as well stay in my room.”

“You don’t need to baby me,” Brock grumbled, reluctantly following him.

“I’m your second, it’s literally my job to baby you. They’re paying me for it.”

“I don’t remember babying the commander being a part of your job description.”

“But you’re not complaining when I cook for you.” Jack dropped Brock’s bag by his bed.

Brock shrugged. “What can I say? You’re a better cook. My signature dish is instant noodles.”

He looked around. He never had an occasion to do it before, as the only time he was actually inside, he was more distracted by the shadow person. Besides the bed, there was also a dark wooden nightstand, an armchair and a closet. The wallpaper was striped, but the colors were hard to name. There was also a small faded portrait of an elderly lady in a golden dress hanging above the nightstand.

“Who’s she?” Brock asked.

“My girlfriend.” Jack shrugged. “Somehow Hydra doesn’t have a file on her. She’s not the late Jack Rollins, that’s for sure.”

“God, and here I was thinking you were omniscient.” Brock opened the closet. Besides Jack’s bag, there was a big black dress hanging inside. He raised his eyebrows. “Yours?”

“Looks more your size.” Jack lay down on the bed, propping himself on the pillows so he could comfortably watch Brock snoop around. Soon though, his eyes closed.

Brock took off his shoes and jacket--this room was warmer, but still chilly enough to raise hair on his skin--and joined Jack on the bed. He noted he didn’t feel so ridiculously small in it with Jack there beside him.

“How’d the mission go?” Jack asked.

“I made a mess,” Brock tried to keep his voice toneless as he pulled the covers up to his chin and curled on his side. “Collateral damage. Little girls had pieces of brain land on their shoes. Pierce’s gonna be thrilled.”

Jack glanced at him with one eye before closing it again. “Fuck Pierce. He wants people dead, he has to accept there’s gonna be a mess.”

Brock didn’t care about Pierce, not really. They had their guys in the police and media that would swipe everything under the carpet. The guy that was supposed to be dead was dead, and that was what ultimately mattered to Pierce.

No, it was that he traumatized two little girls that bothered him. But sometimes there was no other way. It was his job, doing things that had to be done, to bring about the world where those things didn’t need to be done anymore. And that often meant collateral damage. He had to learn to accept that, and he did, long ago. But it didn’t mean he didn’t feel bad about it, still. This time it was the girls. Not the guards; they knew what they were getting into when they chose their occupation and Brock felt none remorse for them.

“Can’t help but think I could do better,” he said. “I’m the fucking commander of STRIKE and I couldn’t avoid something like this?”

“You have to stop beating yourself over being anything less than perfect, seriously, Brock,” Jack said with a frown. “It’s the same thing every time you make a little mess.”

Brock shrugged. “I like to think it’s what makes me a good person.”

“Hate to rain on your parade, but all it makes you is a perfectionist, and if somebody ever tells you it’s a good thing, they’re lying.”

They lay in silence for a short moment before Brock remembered something else about the op.

“Forscher told me something.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “You talked to him?”

“Before Winter shot him. He was trying to beg, to… make a deal. But he was saying weird things.” Brock frowned, trying to remember. Ironically, the clou of the op was outshined first by the twin girls, then by his concern about Jack, and Forscher’s words were distorted and meaningless in his memory. But now they were coming back to him, his mind eager to analyze them. “He said he knew me. That I was one of them--whoever _they_ are--and… and that Hydra would go after me like we did after him.”

“He was talking shit,” Jack said dismissively. His voice had a certain slur to it, one that signified he would drift off to sleep soon. “He was desperate, so he played the ‘you’ll be next’ card. A handbook example.”

“I think he mentioned the house, too,” Brock added as an afterthought. “I just thought it was weird.”

Hydra wouldn’t eliminate him. He’d have to betray them for that to happen, and he had no intention of doing that.

“He was a scientist, they’re all weird.”

Brock watched Jack fall asleep. The split on his lip reopened again and Brock wiped off a bead of blood before it ran down his chin. Feeling tired himself--when was the last time he didn’t feel tired?--he closed his eyes, just to let them rest for a while.

The room was dark when he woke up. Jack was still sleeping beside him in an unchanged position with purring Mickiewicz curled on his chest. Brock’s phone was digging painfully into his thigh where he kept it in his pocket, so he pulled it out and checked the time, squinting in the bright light it gave. It was few minutes after midnight; he slept through the whole evening.

He got up to change into something more comfortable and maybe check if anyone else was still up. After the long nap he just took he didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep again, so he decided to try to tire himself out. Maybe he’d go out on a run.

The moment he thought that, he heard first raindrops hit the window, followed by a thunder. Typical.

He walked out into the dark corridor. He couldn’t hear any sounds coming from downstairs, even Westfahl wasn’t snoring. The walls creaked under the howling wind’s pressure. Brock froze, listening. There were no weeping sounds, but he heard something else within the house. Footsteps on the upper stairs. He jerked his head up and saw a small, dark foot disappearing upstairs.

“Mercer?” he whispered.

He got a giggle in response. A _giggle_. Neither of his teammates ever giggled, and it sounded rather childish.

He looked over his shoulder at Jack. He wondered if he should wake him, but ditched the idea. Jack needed rest, and Brock could handle a lost child that broke in, probably looking for ghosts or something. His eyes fell on his bag. He didn’t want to take his gun with him after what happened the last time he did, but he should be okay with a knife. Just in case it wasn’t a child. Or if the child wasn’t alone.

Having pocketed a small butterfly knife, he quietly climbed up the staircase and looked around the corridor, illuminated by lightning that struck every once in a while. He heard faint whispering coming from the mirror room and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to enter that room. A thought crossed his mind, that if a child trapped itself in there, nobody would know, and it’d be a problem solved. He could just go back to his bed and pretend nothing happened.

But that went far beyond the definition of “collateral damage”, and Brock wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t deliberately doom a child to starvation. Even if it was trespassing and walking in the rooms it shouldn’t have.

He crossed the corridor, stopped in front of the mirror room door and listened in some more. The whispering grew louder, but he still couldn’t make out the words. He slowly opened the door.

There was somebody in the room, so at least he wasn’t imagining things. It was dark inside and Brock had to squint to make out a black mass on the floor, too big for a child. He carefully took a step inside, with one hand holding the door open.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

The black mass moved slightly, whispering again.

“Can’t hear you.”

Brock took out his phone and switched on the flashlight. He squinted again, ready for the mirrors to reflect the light directly in his eyes, but they didn’t. He gasped and, with his heart racing, approached one of the mirrors. It still looked like a mirror, silver and dirty, and he even found a handprint he had left two days ago. And yet, there was no reflection.

The door shut behind him and he spun around, trying to control the panic that threatened to set in. He didn’t know what was more unsettling: hundreds of Brocks around him or no Brocks at all, where there _should_ be.

Trying to calm down his breathing, he aimed the flashlight at the black mass. It was a man, sitting on the floor, bound and blindfolded, his lips moving incessantly. It was neither of his teammates, and yet, he looked familiar. Brock stared at the short black hair, prominent cheekbones and three-day stubble, the black t-shirt and washed-out pair of jeans. The exact same clothes Brock was wearing. The man looked like all the reflections stepped out of the mirrors and became a solid person.

Brock wondered if he was dreaming. Things like that didn’t happen in the real world, so he must have been. He wasn’t hundred percent sure though. He recalled the movie 'Inception'. The characters there had things that helped them determine if they were dreaming or not. Brock could really use one right now.

If it was a dream, he could try to wake up. He shut his eyes and focused very hard on wanting to be awake. It sometimes worked with the sleep paralysis, but when he slowly opened his eyes, he was still in the mirror room, with his doppelgänger bound on the floor. Well, it was worth a shot.

He crouched down before the doppelgänger and leaned in, holding his breath. Now he could hear what the other was saying.

“Please, help me.” Repeated over and over again.

Brock set his phone on the floor and took out the knife. He grabbed the thick rope the doppelgänger’s wrists were bound with. It was weird in touch, unlike a rope; smooth and a little sticky. He pressed a blade to it and--and it moved.

He let go, watching as what he had thought was a rope tightened around the doppelgänger’s wrists, drawing a gasp from him. Brock picked up his phone again and aimed the light at the restraints. He realized he was looking at dark red tentacles.

“What the hell?” he whispered.

When he looked at the doppelgänger’s face, he realized that what he was blindfolded with was also a tentacle. His lips were still moving in a relentless plea for help, but Brock hesitated. Something was telling him that maybe he shouldn’t mess with those tentacles. He wasn’t sure why; they didn’t look particularly dangerous, and he could cut them off, no problem. But what then? Was he gonna introduce the doppelgänger to his team as his long lost twin? Was the doppelgänger even friendly? He looked helpless and pathetic, but Brock saw enough movies about evil clones to have doubts.

Did any of it really matter if he was only dreaming?

“Here’s the deal,” he said, grabbing the tentacle around his wrists again. “I’m gonna free you, and you’ll help us break outta here.”

The doppelgänger didn’t nod, didn’t even make a sign that he heard. Brock sighed, looking down at his hand. He pressed the blade against his skin and made a small cut. If he still had it in the morning, then this was really happening.

Not wasting any more time, he cut the tentacle and pulled. It came off with a sucking noise, the suction cups leaving round burn marks on the doppelgänger’s skin. He cut off the ones on the doppelgänger’s ankles next, then ones that held his arms and his torso together, then the one on his face. He didn’t realize something was wrong until he was looking into a pair of hazel eyes, identical to his own. There was something slimy and jelly-like moving underneath his clothes.

The doppelgänger cocked his head slightly to the side and smirked. With his heart racing, Brock watched him stand up, free of his restraints, and walk past him. He couldn’t turn around, couldn’t grab at him to stop him. Tentacles wrapped themselves around his body, tying his legs together, trying to bring together his wrists.

“Aren’t you gonna help me now?!” Brock yelled. “What are these?!”

All he heard was the door opening and closing. Brock’s phone emitted a sound informing him about the low battery. The flashlight died, and the darkness swallowed him.

The tentacles explored his body, slithering around his hips, torso and neck. A tip of one tickled the inside of his ear, another tried to force its way into his mouth. He struggled against them, but to no avail. It was getting harder to breathe with them squeezing his chest and neck. If he could wake up that would be the right moment. But he wasn’t waking up, no matter how much he wanted to.


	7. Blackout

Brock froze upon the sound of the door opening again. A beam of light illuminated the mirror before him, and through his shadow, Brock could see that his reflections were back again.

“Brock?” Jack was standing in the doorway. He set his flashlight down on the floor to prevent the door from closing. Then he walked inside the room.

“Don’t come close!” Brock warned with the little breath he still had, turning his head away so the tentacle wouldn’t enter his mouth. He didn’t know how to get rid of them, since cutting didn’t seem to make any lasting impression, and Jack certainly shouldn’t be touching them.

Jack froze for a second, then crossed the short distance between them and crouched beside Brock, who tried to shy away.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Hey, easy, it’s just me.”

Jack reached out to touch him, and, not sure what to do, Brock lashed out and shoved him away. Jack caught his wrists to both keep his balance and restrain him.

“Brock, for fuck’s sake, wake up!” he yelled.

“I am awake!”

“Then why are you attacking me?”

“Can’t you see—” Brock looked down at himself and trailed off. The tentacles disappeared—but they _didn’t_. He could still feel them slithering against his skin, making it tingle with goosebumps. At least they weren’t tightening around him anymore, so he could breathe normally.

“See what?” Jack asked.

“They’re on me.” Brock rubbed his bare arms. “They can get on you, too.”

“What?”

“Tentacles.”

Stunned, Jack slowly checked his forehead. “I’m starting to get really concerned about you.”

Brock pushed his hand away and got up. Trying not to look at the reflections around him (he preferred it when there weren’t any, after all, no matter how against the laws of physics it was), he picked up the flashlight and exited the room. He held the door open for Jack, but didn’t turn to look at him.

“You forgot your phone,” Jack said, handing him the phone. Brock thought he also forgot his knife, but he didn’t feel like coming back for it. He could always pick it up later.

Jack turned on the light when they entered their room. Brock wished it made him feel better, safer. But the old bulbs gave dim, flickering light and it only unnerved him more, so he asked Jack to switch it back off. He set the flashlight and his phone on the nightstand and sat down on the bed. Then he admitted to something that had been eating away at him for a while.

“I think I’m losing my mind.” His voice was hollow, like the thought alone didn’t make bile rise in his throat.

“You’re not losing your mind,” Jack said firmly, sitting down beside him. “Don’t be silly.”

“I can’t even tell if I’m dreaming or not!” Brock hoped it was too dark for Jack to see how much on a verge of breaking down he was. “I see things that aren’t there. I don’t even know if I’m really talking to you right now. And these things!” He looked down at himself. “I can’t see them anymore, but I feel them all over me…”

He pulled off his t-shirt and started scratching his skin. If he didn’t forget the knife, he’d try to cut them off again…

“Hey, hey, hey.” Jack grabbed his wrists, forcing him to stop. “Calm down, you’re fine. Of course you don’t know if you’re dreaming, you’re barely awake. You’re gonna be just fine in the morning.”

It sounded… well, tempting to believe in. Could he believe it? His gut told him it wasn’t that simple, but could he really trust himself anymore? And if he couldn’t, whom else was there to trust but Jack? Jack who always had his back, who saved his life time and time again? Jack, who currently suffered from a minor head trauma and was the best liar—maybe apart from Pierce—Brock knew?

He shivered when he felt Jack’s hands trace down his chest and arms.

“I can’t feel anything,” Jack said. “There’s nothing on you.”

The touch was warm, pleasant and _human_ , so unlike the slimy tentacles, making Brock’s skin crawl. Brock remembered the feeling of wanting to kiss Jack and realized—not without a bit of terror—that it didn’t go anywhere.

“How are you?” he asked, trying to make his mind focus on less distressing matter than possibly losing his mind and whatever his feelings for Jack were.

“Fine.” One of Jack’s hands was now resting on his back, the other was holding his arm. It didn’t seem like he was going to move away.

“You’d say fine even if you were dying, wouldn’t you?”

Jack raised his eyebrow. “Are you worried about me after all?”

“Marveling at your misery always made me feel better.”

He offered a lopsided smile. “Sorry to disappoint, but I really feel fine. I stole Westfahl’s painkillers. I passed his bag when I was looking for you all over the house, so I thought I might as well.”

“Should you even take any?”

“They’re not gonna kill me.” He shrugged.

“Well, you should rest, anyway. It’s not like there’s anything else for us to do now.”

“There’s plenty of things we could be doing.”

Why was Brock’s mind suddenly in the gutter?

“Like what?” he asked, his body warming up. Was he blushing?

“I could read, and you…” Jack pretended to wonder. “I’m sure I can find a book with pictures for you to look at.”

Brock wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Jack’s answer didn’t match the image his mind was supplying.

“No reading for you. You can’t strain yourself.”

He stood up, changed into his pajamas and got back to bed. Jack lay down beside him and wrapped his arm around Brock’s waist so he wouldn’t 'wander off anywhere again'. The tentacles calmed down and stilled, but they were still on him, their icky grasp contrasting with Jack’s comforting hold. Jack fell asleep soon, snoring softly beside Brock’s head, but Brock was kept up by anxiety for the rest of the night, drifting off only for few minutes to snap his eyes open again.

When the room became brighter with gray daylight seeping in through the dirty windows, Brock untangled himself from Jack’s limbs. The cut on his hand pulled and he inspected it, a red scarred line between two bones.  

Shivering slightly at the low temperature, he went to the kitchen. Westfahl and Winter were already there.

“Rumlow, look.” Westfahl got up from his chair and limped to the stove where the kettle whistled.

“That’s very nice, Westfahl,” Brock said dryly. “Do you want me to send you a congratulations card?” He took a seat next to Winter and hid his face in his hands. “Make me coffee.”

Soon, they were joined by Collins, Mercer and McKinnon.

“Any news from Sitwell?” Brock asked, drinking his second cup of coffee.

“Nope,” McKinnon replied. “But I don’t think they’re gonna extract us anytime soon.” She gestured towards the window; it was still raining though the thunderstorm passed.

“This is getting ridiculous.” Brock rubbed his eyes.

“It’s not so bad,” Collins said in a light tone. “Remember when we got snowed in Abaza?”

“No, please, don’t remind me.” Although when Brock was trapped in their safehouse in Abaza for almost two weeks, at least he was going stir crazy as opposed to the actual crazy.

“Speaking of snow, am I the only one here who’s awfully cold?” Mercer asked. She had a denim jacket thrown over her long nightgown and was wrapped in a blanket.

“We could light a fire. If we have firewood, that is,” Brock said.

“There should be some in the basement.”

The door to the basement was between two empty rooms all the armchairs must have come from. McKinnon switched on the lone bulb hanging under the ceiling, and she, Brock and Mercer went down the stairs, leaving Westfahl at the door.

The air in the basement was stale, and the concrete walls were covered in mold, though not as drastically as in Brock’s bedroom. It was bigger than Brock expected. They scattered around, looking for firewood, though McKinnon was more interested in stuff on the shelves. Brock couldn’t help but take a closer look at the coffins; there were two, like Jack said, black, and thankfully empty inside.

“Jeez, whatever would Hydra need these for?” Mercer asked, standing beside him.

“Bodies transportation?” McKinnon suggested, not looking their way. She was holding a dusty box in her hands. “People died here after all. Hey, look what I found.” She raised the box to show them. It was a Ouija board. “We could play later.”

“That never works,” Mercer said. “We only ever get a bunch of letters and numbers, not even actual words.”

“Well, that’s because we only played at Jack’s. The only spirit you’ll find there is Jonnie Walker. This house though? Come on. There has to be something.”

“Why do you think that?” Brock asked. Maybe all these crazy things weren’t happening only to him. Maybe he wasn’t losing his mind after all.

“Cold spots.” McKinnon started counting off on her fingers. “There’s one in my room, one in Collins’, and one in the study. Didn’t you notice?”

Brock shrugged. “The whole house is cold.”

“Then there’s the mold everywhere.”

“Something you’d expect in an abandoned house,” Mercer said.

McKinnon ignored her. “Scratching in the walls, unexplained footsteps—”

“Rumlow’s been sleepwalking, apparently.”

Brock glared at Mercer, but she was too busy arguing to notice.

“And he saw an apparition. Right, Brock?”

“Again, he was sleepwalking.”

Both now turned to look at him, expecting him to back one of them up.

“There’s firewood.” Brock circled the coffins and picked up a couple of logs. “You gonna help me or what?”

“I’m taking the board,” McKinnon muttered. She gathered firewood in her arms and placed the box on the top of it.

Mercer only shrugged.

Suddenly, a strong headache made Brock stop in his tracks and double over. His head felt like it was splitting in half, and he clenched it in his hands, barely containing a scream. There was music blaring in his ears, and when he touched them, his fingertips hit earphones. Wondering how the hell did they get there, he pulled them out. His headache slowly dulled into a background noise behind his eyes.

His heart skipped a beat when he looked up and realized he had no idea where he was. He spun around, taking in the earthy road with trees and bushes with withering leaves on each side. The air was chilly, the sun setting. He looked down at himself; he was dressed in sweats and covered in sweat, like he was just enjoying a run. The earphones were connected to his phone; he turned off the music and checked the time.

“Fuck,” he whispered upon realizing he just lost not two, but eight hours of his life. “What’s happening to me?”

He couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t know where the logs that he was just holding went, he didn’t remember getting changed and going out. He didn’t know which way he went, if he took any turns. He was in a middle of nowhere, it would soon get dark, and he didn’t know how to get back.

Chills ran down his spine as a sudden feeling of being watched overcame him. His hand reached for a gun that wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t armed, who takes a gun for a run? Brock was pretty damn good in hand to hand combat, but he felt more confident when he had more than just his fists to rely on.

He scanned the area. He saw nothing, but his gut was telling him there was something—some _one—_ hiding behind the trees. Curling his hands into fists, his body tense, he called out, “I know you’re here. Show yourself.”

A crunch of dry leaves behind him had him turn on his heel. He saw a movement between the trees and he braced himself, but seconds passed, and nothing happened. Did he imagine the whole thing? But he could swear he was being watched.

On the other hand, he could still feel his skin prickle from the tentacles wrapped around him.

He let out a misty breath and rubbed his temples. He was really losing his grip. Maybe the best idea would be to call for Jack to find and get him, his pride be damned. He pulled out his phone again, only to find there was no reception.

The bushes rustled and something moved out of the corner of his eye. He looked up, and this time he saw a human shape walk through the high grass and onto the road. Brock gasped; it was the Soldier. He stopped, facing Brock, his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Even though he wasn’t dressed in his combat suit, and he was barely armed—Brock noted a thigh holster—the sight of him wasn’t reassuring at all. Brock suddenly heard Forscher’s voice in his head, clear as if he stood right beside him, whispering into his ear.

_They’ll turn on you, too._

“Soldier?” he called out, his throat feeling like he was choking on his own racing heart.

Once Hydra wrote you off, it was over. Brock never imagined he’d be written off himself, but he did wonder what he’d do if he was about to be killed. Would he beg, like he witnessed even tougher men than himself do? Would he see his life pass before his eyes? Would he be disgusted with it?

He didn’t think his mind would be racing, trying to think of a reason why. That he’d wonder about who knew and who betrayed him. The whole team? Nobody?

Jack?

 _He was talking shit. He was desperate, so he played the 'you'll be next' card._ Jack’s voice was stoic in his memory, on the verge of dismissive, and in the same voice his reason told him, _That’s not what he looks like before making a kill, so you can relax._

The Soldier approached Brock with a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Busted,” he muttered.

Brock forced himself to relax a little, but remained alert. It would be a huge mistake not to around him. “Why were you following me?”

“Rollins’ orders.”

Brock raised his eyebrow. That was unexpected. “Jack told you to follow me? Why?”

Winter shrugged. “Didn’t tell.”

“Well, let’s come back, shall we?”

He nodded and continued onwards. Brock breathed a sigh of relief—not only he wasn’t getting murdered tonight, he would come back to the safehouse without having to admit to his memory issues as well—and followed him.

“You got any other orders from Jack I’m unaware of?”

“I don’t know which ones you’re unaware of.”

“The ones he specifically told you to keep secret from me.”

“Just to keep an eye on you and protect you should such a need arise.”

Brock frowned. “What does he think I am, a damsel in distress? I can take care of myself.”

“You realized you were being followed after half an hour. During that time, I could’ve killed you exactly fifty times in three different ways; more if I was properly armed, especially that you were distracted by the music.” Brock looked at him wide-eyed, and Winter added, “Just an observation.”

Brock could argue that the chances of somebody attacking him in this wilderness were close to zero, but having Winter with him _was_ convenient. Almost like Jack expected something like this to happen. It shouldn’t really surprise him, not after last night, when Brock right out admitted he was losing his mind. Jack was precautionary like this.

They reached the safehouse right before the last rays of sunshine disappeared behind the horizon. The team gathered in the living room, sitting and kneeling in a circle on the floor, except for Jack, who was lounging on the couch with a book in his hands and Mickiewicz curled in his lap. They all looked up at Brock when he entered, almost expectantly, and he wiped his suddenly sweaty hands. The last eight hours were a black spot in his memory, but he was doing something during that time, interacting with these people. Was he acting weird? Did he do something stupid and embarrassing? It was like blacking out on a bender, only without getting drunk.

“He saw me,” Winter said, shrugging.

McKinnon turned to Jack. “You had him follow Brock?”

“Just in case.” Jack’s gaze dropped on his book.

McKinnon stared at him in silence for a moment. “I’m not even gonna ask,” she decided, and the team’s attention returned to the center of their circle.

Only then Brock noticed that they had a Ouija board laid out on the floor, along with a bunch of yellowed candles scattered here and there, which seemed a little pointless with the lights being on.

“Winter, wanna play?” Westfahl asked.

Winter nodded and sat down beside him, Collins shuffling a little to the side to give him more space. “What are the rules?” he asked, probably thinking it was something similar to a card game.

So maybe Brock didn’t do anything weird, maybe they were just looking at him funny because they didn’t expect him to come back with Winter. At least he hoped so. A little relieved, he ignored Collins explain to Winter what a Ouija board was with an expression of a haunted priest and approached Jack. He yanked the book out of his grasp and set it down on the makeshift bar.

“Give that back,” Jack demanded calmly.

“No.” Brock dropped beside him, folding his arms on his chest and resting his head against the backrest. “It’s gonna make your concussion worse.”

“I’m fine.”

“And we wanna keep it that way.”

Jack let it go. He rested his arm on the top of the backrest, brushing the top of Brock’s head.

“Brock, wanna join us?” McKinnon asked when Collins was done explaining and everybody put their fingers on the planchette.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Hello. We seek to talk to spirits of this house, but welcome only positive energy,” Collins said solemnly. “Is there anyone with us?”

Brock cracked a smile at the sight of Winter’s face when the planchette moved, seemingly by itself, to the word 'yes'.

“Let’s ask it yes or no questions,” Mercer suggested. “Maybe that way it’ll actually work.”

“Okay, who goes first?”

It took Brock a moment to realize he wasn’t following the game, watching Jack instead. They were sitting so close, Brock could feel Jack’s body heat radiating off him, and smell cigarette smoke on his clothes. He fixed his eyes on the smooth skin of Jack’s neck. A warm desire hatched in his lower abdomen, making him want to touch and taste, and he forced himself to look away, his face and chest burning.

Where were those sudden feelings coming from? And why now, when he had his mental health to worry about? He couldn’t always trust himself, not anymore. What if he sleepwalked or blacked out again? He didn’t know how much in control he was then. What if he did something… something that would make Jack hate him? What if he tried to hurt him? Jack could defend himself from Brock no problem, but their friendship would suffer and it was way too important for Brock to bear to lose it.

Trying to ignore Jack’s body brushing against his as he made himself more comfortable on the couch, Brock tuned in to the game.

“My turn,” McKinnon said. “Do Brock and Jack screw each other?”

If Brock happened to hold anything in that moment, he’d dramatically drop it.

“What?” he asked.

He was ignored as everybody watched the planchette move.

NO

“Dammit,” McKinnon hissed.

Westfahl emitted a triumphal cry. “Pay up!”

Brock watched, dumbstruck, as McKinnon, Mercer and Collins reached for their wallets with sour faces. “Wait, you took bets on this? Why?”

McKinnon looked up at him, a twenty dollar bill in her hand. “Since you keep giving each other bedroom eyes and all.”

“What?” Brock didn’t like how his voice got slightly higher. “Like when?”

She raised an eyebrow. “A moment ago,” she said matter-of-factly. “For example.”

Shit. Was it that obvious? But if he was just realizing this, and they obviously took bets earlier—much earlier, by the look of it—then what tipped them of? Could Jack possibly…

Brock glanced at him, but the look on his face was neutral, slightly bored even, as if such nonsense wasn’t deserving of his attention. Typical.

“What are you waiting for?” Westfahl asked McKinnon when she still didn’t give him the bill.

“For any of them to deny it, but it’s not happening.” She looked down at the board and then again at Westfahl. “You know what, it’s stupid to trust the board. You probably moved the planchette.”

“I didn’t!”

“Someone’s moving it,” Mercer said. “And all of us betted against you.”

They slowly turned to look at the Soldier, who mostly seemed confused by what was going on. “I thought an invisible entity is moving it…?”

“That’s what the point of the Ouija is supposed to be, but no one actually believes that.”

“I believe that,” Collins said.

“No wonder, you’re a weirdo.”

Westfahl sighed. “Do I get my money or not?”

McKinnon rolled her eyes and shoved the bill into his hand. “Choke on it.”

They put their fingers back on the planchette.

“Let’s try with more detailed questions,” Collins offered. “Maybe it’ll work.” The rest just nodded, so he continued, “How many spirits are in the room?”

The planchette didn’t move right away, but then it slowly pointed to the number 3.

“Who are we talking to?”

“J,” McKinnon read out loud. “A, C… Jack?”

She looked at Jack in amusement, as if she thought he was moving it with his mind. Brock leaned forward in sudden interest.

“Jack Rollins?”

YES

“Very funny, Westfahl,” McKinnon said.

“It wasn’t me.” And to prove it, he took his fingers off the planchette.

“His grave is in the backyard,” Brock explained.

“Seriously?” Mercer looked up at them. “There’s a grave of a guy who shares a name with you?”

Jack only nodded.

“Creepy.”

Brock remembered about his own name written on a previously blank stone. “Ask him who wrote my name on one.”

But no one had to repeat the question, as the planchette moved again, almost too eager to answer.

SHE

“She who?” Collins frowned.

The planchette moved, but it didn’t point to any letter or number. It started making eight figures—something Brock only heard about before, but never saw himself. Mickiewicz jumped off Jack’s legs and started hissing at the board. McKinnon visibly paled.

“Who’s moving it?” she asked.

“Not me,” Mercer said.

“What does it mean?” Winter asked.

“Nothing good,” Collins replied. “We’re leaving now. Rest in peace.”

The planchette moved again, pointing to the word “no”. McKinnon and Westfahl yelped and Winter gasped softly when lights suddenly went out. Even Brock jumped a little in his seat, and Jack’s hand clenched his arm.

Collins moved the planchette to “goodbye” and closed the board.

“Jesus,” McKinnon breathed. “There goes my ability to fall asleep tonight.”

“I’ll check the fuses.” Jack stood up, swiped one of the candles off the floor and walked out.

Collins put the board and planchette back in the box, and the team got up off the floor, each of them taking a candle. There was tension between them; Westfahl tried to start a conversation, first talking about video games and then his weekend plans, but he was only met with a few grunts in response.

A loud crash coming from the basement interrupted the silence that fell. Brock was on his feet, rushing towards the basement door in a matter of seconds. It was left open and he stopped at the threshold, squinting to see in the darkness.

“Jack? Are you alright?”


	8. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for non-con elements that take place here as well as in later chapters, they're not graphic, and it's unclear if they're happening in reality or just Brock's head ;)

“I can’t believe I just fell down the stairs,” came Jack’s defeated answer.

Brock pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight. He made out Jack’s lying form at the bottom of the stairs.

“Can you move?”

“Yeah.” Jack sat up and then slowly pulled himself to his feet. “Nothing’s broken.” He brushed himself off. “And it’s not the fuses. The power must’ve gone out. All we can do is wait for it to come back on.”

He climbed upstairs and closed the door. There was a bump forming on his forehead, to match the bruised cut on his brow on the other side.

“You fell?” Brock asked, skeptical. It was something that was likely to happen to Westfahl, not Jack. “Nobody pushed you?”

Jack raised an eyebrow at him, winced, and touched his forehead. “There was no one there to push me. Do we still have those ice bags?”

They went to the kitchen. Brock put his phone on the table to at least minimally light up the room. He opened the fridge and pulled an ice cube bag out of the freezer. Mickiewicz sensed an opportunity and started rubbing all over Brock’s legs and meowing, so he also grabbed an open can of cat food. He turned to Jack, who was staring at him wide-eyed.

“What?” Brock asked.

Jack shook his head. “Nothing. I was seeing double for a moment there.” He took the bag from Brock and pressed it to his forehead.

“You should lie down,” Brock said over Mickiewicz’s loud meowing.

“I’m gonna, you coming with me?”

Brock found a plastic plate and emptied the can on it. Mickiewicz jumped on the kitchen counter and started eating right away.

“I’m not tired,” he lied and glanced at the radio set up on the table. “Any news from dispatch when I was out?”

Jack shook his head.

“Did you even try to reach them?”

“Yep. Still just static,” Jack said it like Brock should know.

“So what, now the radio’s broken?” Brock sat down on a chair, looking at it resentfully. First the car, now this. Would they ever leave this shithole?

“It’s not broken, just nobody’s responding.” Jack shrugged. “I’m sure it’s temporary.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Collins showed up in the doorway. “Because to me, it feels like something here doesn’t want us to leave.”

“Do you even think before opening your mouth?” Jack asked. “Because that’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Cut that shit out. You saw what just happened.”

“I saw a bunch of idiots playing a stupid game and getting spooked by a simple power outage.”

“So you gonna tell me that was a coincidence?”

“Of course it was a coincidence. Half of the town is probably out of power. You’re not gonna tell me ghosts did it. Ghosts don’t exist.”

“So what was moving the planchette?”

“You were, unconsciously. It’s called Carpenter’s effect. Google it.”

Collins pursed his lips and looked at Brock. “We’re going to bed early. Ann suggested to keep watch tonight, for…” He glanced at Jack. “For reasons.”

Brock nodded. “Go, I’ll stay. I’m not tired, anyway. I’ll try to reach dispatch, one way or another.”

Collins nodded, mumbled a goodnight and left.

“You said you didn’t believe in coincidences,” Brock said quietly.

“I don’t, but there are plenty of reasons for this to happen, didn’t have to be ghosts. Maybe there’s another storm coming and _that’s_ why we can’t make contact.”

Brock nodded. It made sense.

“You want anything from the room? A flashlight? Candles?”

“Both.” He watched Jack leave, but before he crossed the threshold, he asked, “So why did you send Winter after me?”

Jack froze and turned to face him. “I don’t like it when you draw away from the team when we’re on the job. When any of us does. You wouldn’t let me join you, so I sent him.” He shrugged. “Call me paranoid if you want, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“So you’d do the same thing if it was anyone else? It didn’t have anything to do with my mental issues?”

“Jeez, Brock. You don’t have any mental issues.”

“I lost a whole day.” Brock looked away. He didn’t plan on admitting it to anybody, but Jack was his second. He should know, for the team’s sake.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“I mean that one moment I was carrying firewood in the basement, and a second later I was on an empty road. I don’t remember anything that happened in between.” He paused, but Jack was too stunned to say anything. “I didn’t know where I was. If it wasn’t for Winter, I wouldn’t know how to come back.”

He saw Jack approach him out of the corner of his eye, but he only looked up when he felt his hand on his shoulder.

“Come with me. You need rest.”

Brock shook his head. “I already told them I’d stay. Besides, I just know I’m gonna sleepwalk again. And when I do, weird shit happens. I don’t know if it’s only in my head, or…” he trailed off, fingering the scarred cut on the back of his hand.

“So you’re not gonna sleep at all? You’ll only make it worse.”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what to do. I’m just… Fuck, Jack, I’m scared to fall asleep. Again.” He wiped his face, avoiding Jack’s gaze. Talking to him was just too easy. Too often he ended up admitting to his darkest secrets.

“Hey, look at me.” Jack squeezed his shoulder and he reluctantly did. “I don’t blame you for being scared. Shit, I’m scared. That night on the balcony? The most I’ve been scared in years. Last night, when I woke up and you weren’t there, and I couldn’t find you anywhere, I barely kept myself from panicking. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

“Wouldn’t be your fault.”

“Would be. Partially, at least. This isn’t like the sleep paralysis, where it’s just unpleasant. It’s actually dangerous. So don’t feel bad for being scared.”

Brock nodded and Jack let go of his shoulder.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No need to. You just hit your head again, go sleep it off.”

“Okay. Just don’t pull an all-nighter.”

Jack left, returned with a flashlight, three candles, a lighter and a blanket, and left again with a goodnight. Brock lit up the candles, switched off the flashlight in his phone to conserve the battery, and made himself coffee. He sat down at the table again, put on headgear and tuned in the radio to the dispatch’s channel.

“STRIKE to dispatch, over,” he said. He listened in, but didn’t receive anything but static. “STRIKE to dispatch. Anybody there?”

With white noise filling his ears, he checked his phone. It was still early, and in Washington, it was afternoon. He opened his contacts to call Sitwell, but then he noticed there was still no reception.

“STRIKE to dispatch, over,” he repeated, without any hope to get a response. “Are you gonna extract us from here or not?”

He propped his head up with a hand and closed his eyes to let them rest for a moment. The static wasn’t unpleasant; it was actually lulling him to sleep. He snapped his eyes open and took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the too bitter taste. He watched Mickiewicz chase his own tail absent-mindedly for a moment before he realized he was hearing a faint whisper among the static. Frowning, he listened in some more, to make sure he wasn’t just imagining it.

“Dispatch?” he asked. “Sitwell?”

He turned the dial to try and reduce the white noise. The whisper became louder, enough to make out single words.

_…Brock…please…down…_

He froze at the sudden feeling of somebody standing behind him. His body was attacked by pins and needles, and he lost control over it. His upper half collapsed on the table; he tried to move, but in vain. He felt hands on him, massaging his body, touching him in places he didn’t want to be touched. Somebody was breathing down his neck. The whispering grew even louder in his ears. It must have been a female.

_…please help go down go down go down…_

He closed his eyes. He knew what was happening to him, he recognized the feeling almost immediately. He was asleep, and experiencing sleep paralysis. He hadn’t had an episode in over three months, after a really bad case of it; he suffered from it every night for months, to the point he actually saw a doctor about it. He even got some pills, some kind of antidepressants that made him feel shitty, but helped with the paralysis. Brock had optimistically thought he was done with it, but apparently, he was not.

Fighting back the fear that overcame him, he tried his best to ignore the feeling of wandering hands and a body pressing against his from behind, and focused on his breathing. It was a technique that didn’t always work, but it was the only thing he could do, with his body as unresponsive as it was. It took a while, but he knew better than to resign himself to panic when it didn’t pass right away. When it finally did, it was as swift as it started; his body, though a little heavy, wasn’t numb anymore, and the unsettling feeling of a strange presence was gone. When Brock finally found it in himself to open his eyes and move, he found that the side of his face was still resting in his hand, unlike in the dream, where it was lying on the table. He straightened up and pulled off the headgear, the silence that replaced the static so profound that his ears started ringing. Mickiewicz was sitting on the table beside the radio, his eyes fixed on a point over Brock’s shoulder.

“Whatcha lookin’ at there?” Brock asked.

Mickiewicz pricked up his ears but didn’t move otherwise. Brock’s skin crawled. He was dreaming about somebody behind him, and now the cat was staring at the exact same place…

He stood up. He had enough of sitting in the kitchen. He walked out so abruptly, he forgot his phone and the flashlight, but the fireplace was still burning, bathing its surroundings in an orange glow, the logs crackling every other moment. Westfahl was sitting in one of the armchairs, his open eyes fixed on the fire.

“You’re awake?” Brock asked.

Westfahl nodded, not looking away. “Hard to fall asleep in this room after…” He shrugged.

“But you didn’t experience anything… weird?”

“No,” he mumbled. He probably thought Brock was making fun of him.

“I’m turning in. Stay on the watch.”

Westfahl nodded again and Brock passed the living room, reached the hallway and went up the stairs.

The sudden relapse of sleep paralysis unnerved him. He didn’t want that nightmare to start again. He lost months of his life because of it. He needed Jack’s cool head more than ever now; he always knew what to do to make Brock feel better. Safer. Just his stoical presence was often enough to ground Brock, get his head on straight.

When he opened the door to Jack’s bedroom, he thought he somehow got lost and entered the mirror room again. But no; the reflection standing in front of the bed was solid, independent of Brock’s movement, unlimited by a mirror frame. It smirked.

“Who are you?” Brock asked, though maybe he should have used “what” instead.

“I’m you,” the reflection replied.

The tentacles twisted on Brock’s skin, making it prickle, and he feared he had another episode of paralysis coming, but nothing happened. Maybe he didn’t wake up like he thought he did. He dug his nails into the cut on the back of his hand; it hurt. He wondered if he could feel pain in dreams after all.

“You can’t be me, I’m me,” he replied.

“Are you sure?” the reflection asked. “Are you sure you’re the real Brock Rumlow?”

It—he?—crossed his arms on his chest, still smirking smugly, like he just won an argument, an argument that was too absurd for Brock to continue.

“No?” he asked when Brock didn’t respond.

He dropped his arms and circled the bed, his dark eyes falling on the sleeping form of Jack. He stopped by the nightstand and reached out to touch him. Brock could clearly see a tentacle wrapped around his wrist. It detached from the skin, leaving a round burn, and stretched itself towards Jack.

“Stay away from him,” Brock barked, his muscles tense. He wanted to lash out at the doppelganger and tackle him to the ground, but the tentacles clenched around his legs, making it hard to move.

The reflection turned his head to face him, and in the darkness of the room, he reminded Brock of a shadow he had seen the second night here.

“It was you,” he said in a tight voice.

The doppelganger’s smile was too wide to be physically possible for a human. Still looking at Brock, he touched Jack’s cheek with his fingers.

“Don’t touch him!”

“Why not? That’s what you want to do though you pretend you don’t. That’s all you do, pretend you’re somebody you’re not. You’re but a lie, so how could you be the real Brock Rumlow?” His hand ran down Jack’s cheek, neck, slipped under the collar of his t-shirt, the tentacle following its movement.

Brock’s blood boiled. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

He glanced at his bag lying on the other side of the bed. If he somehow managed to distract his reflection, he could sneak up and get his gun. If only his legs didn’t feel like he was stuck to the floor…

“Oh, but you love hurting him. Driving a knife into his back over and over again, knowing he will always forgive you.” Though the doppelganger’s fingers kept caressing Jack’s skin, his eyes never left Brock’s.

“I don’t.”

“That’s another bullshit you keep telling yourself to be able to look at yourself in the mirror.” His grin was too unsettling to look at, but for some reason, Brock couldn’t avert his eyes. “Ah, humans. What aren’t we able to excuse? Especially you. If you’re talented at anything, it’s that. Makes you a perfect Hydra agent. Ends justify the means, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Brock rested his head against the wall. His body felt so heavy with the tentacles dragging him down.

“Are we gonna hear the truth coming out your mouth tonight? You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You make everybody believe the bullshit about building a better world while making it worse with every innocent life you take. His, for example. He trusted you, and you drew him in, knowing there was no way out.”

“That’s not true.” But if it wasn’t, why did his voice crack? Why did his eyes sting?

“You dare call me a liar?” the doppelganger hissed, more like a snake than a human, a grimace distorting his handsome features. “I am the truth to your lie… I embraced my inner ugliness instead of living a pretty delusion of being a ‘good man’…”

More tentacles slipped from beneath his sleeves and wrapped themselves around Jack’s arms and neck, pulling him up to a sitting position. Brock pushed himself off the wall and advanced on him, but stumbled, tripped over his own feet and fell on his hands and knees.

“Leave… him… alone…” he panted.

The doppelganger patted his head with his free hand. Hatred set Brock’s veins on fire. He watched his other self climb on the bed and straddle Jack's thighs. Jack’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked at him sleepily.

“No… stop…” Brock snarled through clenched teeth. His body shook as he struggled to move. His eyes darted to his bag. Maybe he’d manage to crawl to it if he tried hard enough…

“Keep telling yourself that. Live within the confinement of your own inhibitions. I’m not afraid of taking what I want.” The reflection cradled Jack’s face in his hands, looking into his eyes.

“Don’t you dare…” Brock’s voice was but a whisper, but filled with enough heat for the doppelganger to hear. “I’ll kill you, I swear… Just let me move, you’ll see…”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not doing anything he doesn’t want me to.”

“Brock?” Jack asked in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Shhh.” The doppelganger pressed an index finger to his lips. “You’re dreaming.”

And then he kissed him. And after a moment of stunned stillness, Jack kissed him back.

The bag slipped Brock’s mind as he stared in shock. Jack rested his hands on the doppelganger’s hips, licking into his mouth hungrily. He didn’t notice the dark red tentacles wrapping themselves around his body. Brock’s own tentacles squeezed tighter, drawing the air out of his lungs. They closed around his neck and he collapsed as breathing became near impossible.

“Jack,” he wheezed, but Jack was too much into the kiss to notice anything else taking place around him.

It was when Brock’s vision darkened around the edges when, among the wet sounds of lips on lips and panting, he heard growling, and then hissing. A dark shape showed in his peripheral vision. With spiked fur and barred teeth, Mickiewicz jumped at Brock’s neck, burying his claws and fangs in the tentacles. Brock heard a piercing shriek inside his head, and he let out a choked cry of pain, but the tentacles let go, the strange heave lifted off his body, and, gasping for breath, he leapt towards his bag. Mickiewicz jumped at the doppelganger and he doubled over in an attempt to avoid claws to the face. Brock got onto his feet, cocked his gun and aimed at the doppelganger sprawled across the bed. Jack was staring ahead with unseeing eyes.

“I warned you,” Brock snarled.

“You can’t kill me,” the doppelganger hissed. He was smirking, but his eyes burned with pure anger. “I’m you. There’s no you without me.”

“One bullet and you’re out. I saw it.”

“Not for long.”

But the doppelganger stopped smirking and his face distorted into something that no longer looked like Brock. Before Brock decided to shoot, he slipped off the bed like a huge tentacle, and crawled across the room in an unexpected speed. Brock jumped away when he— _i_ _t—_ brushed his leg on its way out. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Brock, neither version of him. It wasn’t even human.

Brock wondered if he shouldn’t chase after it and shoot it, but somehow he knew that if he followed it out of the room, he wouldn’t find it. He just had a feeling the thing left. At least for now.

Ignoring Mickiewicz, who jumped on the bed and started licking himself under the tail, Brock clicked the safety on, set the gun down and rushed to Jack’s side. He snapped his fingers in front of his face.

“You with me?” he asked.

Jack blinked and looked up at him in confusion.

“What’s…” he started in a rough voice, but it seemed he didn’t know how to form his question.

“Get up and pack up,” Brock said. “We’re leaving.”

Jack’s face darkened as reality dawned on him. And because Jack didn’t fucking blush, ever—maybe with an exception of two hours’ worth of hard training, which wasn’t the case—Brock came to a conclusion that either what just happened was real—and he was ready to admit it wasn’t because demon doppelgangers or whatever the hell just violated Jack couldn’t possibly exist—or Brock and Jack just shared a dream, or Jack got a glimpse of what was lurking in Brock’s sick mind, which was impossible as well. All the more reasons to leave this fucking house and never look back.

Jack cleared his throat. “What? Dispatch called?”

“No.” Brock unplugged his phone charger and threw it into his bag.

Jack looked at the windows, and then checked the time. “It’s three a.m. Where do you want to go at this hour?”

“Home. I don’t care how. We’re gonna swim through the Atlantic if we have to, but we’re not staying another second in this damned house.”

Jack caught him by the elbow and yanked him onto the bed.

“The hell you’re doing!” Brock snapped.

Jack pressed him into the mattress with a hand on his chest, his face hovering over Brock’s. “Have mercy, it’s the middle of the night. Everyone’s asleep. We’ll discuss leaving in the morning, okay?”

Surrounded by Jack’s warmth and smell, Brock had no desire to struggle. He nodded.

“So what happened?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” Brock whispered.

Jack’s eyes focused on Brock’s lips. He leaned in, enough for Brock to feel hot breath on his face. His heart skipped a beat. Jack actually… he actually wanted to…

But Jack remembered himself, his eyes snapped back to Brock’s and he pulled away. Brock closed his eyes, fighting back the desire to pull him back in. He was still confused by what just did or didn’t happen, his mind wasn’t clear. Jack was right, he should let himself get a bit of sleep.

Jack covered him with the duvet and curled around him, throwing his arm across his waist.

“Goodnight,” he murmured into his hair.

Brock felt a weight of Mickiewicz’s warm body on his chest and petted his head sleepily, scratching behind the ears.

 _He’s not a bad cat,_ was his last conscious thought before drifting off.


	9. Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like cheesy punching a mirror scenes? I don’t but sometimes you just can’t avoid them, you gotta roll with them.

The following morning greeted them with a radio static and a lack of reception. Brock tried to fight off his migraine with coffee, but by his third cup it got even worse. His teammates talked around him, but with a huge drill boring into his brain, it was hard to focus on anything else. He could only hope they were discussing possible ways of getting back home. Though if Collins kept his 'the house is keeping us hostage' stance, they weren’t going to get far.

Brock raised his head from where it was resting on his hands and looked at Jack. He was sitting at the far end of the table, slicked back hair, a leather jacket and a permanent frown. He wasn’t taking part in the conversation, lost in his thoughts instead. Perhaps he was thinking up a solution. The plastic cup Brock set down before him an hour ago remained untouched. He hadn’t said a word to Brock since they woke up, hadn’t even looked at him. Brock dropped his gaze on his hands again, the small red cut contrasting with his toned skin. Was Jack disgusted with him, after what happened last night? _Whatever_ happened last night? What did Jack even think had happened? Brock’s version of the events wasn’t Jack’s and it wasn’t clear which one was true. Maybe neither. Maybe both. Maybe all Jack remembered from last night was kissing Brock and it disgusted him to the point he couldn’t bear to as much as look at him. No matter how eager he had seemed. It might have been some creepy monster powers at work.

Or maybe none of it happened, maybe it was all in Brock’s head. Maybe Jack found him drooling and staring off into the distance, talking nonsense about doppelgangers and tentacles. Maybe he was wary of Brock’s developing insanity.

Maybe the whole op was in Brock’s head and in reality he was strapped to a bed in some mental institution, doped up on meds.

A commotion snapped Brock out of his grim reverie. Before his drowsy mind managed to catch up, multiple things happened at once: the Soldier lashed out at Westfahl while jumping to his feet; Westfahl fell out of his chair, moaning in both pain and fear; chairs crashed to the ground as the team hurried to get away from danger; Jack stood up with his gun trained on the Soldier’s head, ordering him to stand down in a cold voice. Brock heaved himself up to his feet, balancing his weight on his hands still resting on the table, mad at himself for being so slow and weak. He noted Jack was the only one armed; the rest wasn’t even dressed properly. Brock himself was still wearing sweats. The Soldier’s chest heaved, his hands curled into fists, his eyes fixed on Westfahl still groaning on the floor.

“Soldier,” Brock said in his commander voice, “What’s the matter?”

“Hurt my arm,” Winter said, swallowed, and repeated, “He hit my arm.”

He was favoring his left arm, and when his fists unclenched, he grabbed his metal shoulder with his flesh hand.

“Does it still hurt?” Brock asked over Westfahl whining that he didn’t do anything.

The Soldier nodded. His eyes were now flicking to Jack’s gun still trained on him.

“Is anything else wrong?”

“I’m cold,” the Soldier said quietly after a bit.

“It’s psychosomatic,” Jack said calmly. The Soldier gave him a confused look.

“It means it’s not real,” Brock explained. “You think it hurts you, but it doesn’t. Look at it, it’s metal. It can’t hurt you.”

The Soldier looked down at his arm, but said nothing.

“I’m gonna give you something now to help relieve the pain, because I know it feels real. But remember it’s not. Okay?”

The Soldier nodded and Brock hurried to his room, retrieved a white pill from a bottle and came back. He handed it to the Soldier, told him to swallow and reassured him it was gonna help him. Only then Jack put his gun down and sat back. The Soldier apologized to Westfahl, who was climbing back onto his chair, and Collins returned to the table as well. Mercer put the kettle on to warm the Soldier up with some hot water (he wasn’t allowed tea or coffee) and McKinnon grabbed her cigarettes.

“Jeez, I need a smoke. You coming?” she asked Jack.

“I’m good.” Jack was still trying his best not to look at Brock.

Brock rubbed his suddenly stinging eyes. His feelings for Jack couldn’t have developed in a more inconvenient moment. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t deal with this, the Soldier and whatever was happening with his brain all at once. He slowly lowered himself onto his seat, feeling the muscles of his arms tremble. He hadn’t eaten in two days. McKinnon made eggs an hour ago, but he had refused. He _still_ had a couple of MREs in his bag.

“Feeling better?” he asked the Soldier.

Winter cradled the plastic cup with hot water in his hands and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Thank God the Soldier didn’t know about the placebo effect. He wasn’t allowed painkillers, and they wouldn’t do much for him with his accelerated metabolism anyway. Brock gave him his supplements.

A hair-raising shriek had them on their feet again. They exchanged looks and rushed to the backyard.

McKinnon stood with her hand clasping her mouth and her wide, glassy eyes fixed on the muddy ground. Two more steps revealed what she was looking at: Mickiewicz, lying on his side. The wind was pulling his tarnished fur. Mercer approached the small, fragile body and crouched to take a closer look. Jack wrapped his arm around McKinnon’s shoulders and she clung to him.

Mercer touched the stiff body with her finger. “He’s been dead for hours. No signs of a fight. Must’ve been sick.” She looked up at McKinnon. “I’m sorry. I know you liked the furball.”

McKinnon hid her face in Jack’s chest, her shoulders shaking, and he held her tighter. Something heavy dropped in Brock’s stomach. They were good friends, sure, but… what if they were something more and hiding it? He’s lived with Jack for almost a year now, and during that time he never brought a girl home, but he didn’t always return for the night. It’d make sense. Brock tore his eyes away from them, his face burning. No, Jack would tell him if he had a girlfriend, even if that girlfriend was McKinnon.

Right?

Mercer stood up. “We better bury it. Since we already have a grave.” She thumbed over her shoulder.

“There are spades in the basement.” Brock swallowed, but his throat remained dry.

“I’ll go,” Collins said quietly and walked inside the house, followed by Westfahl and Winter.

McKinnon finally let go of Jack and wiped her reddened eyes. “I’m sorry,” she croaked out.

“Don’t be. You have a right to be sad,” Mercer reassured her.

Westfahl and Winter returned, carrying… a coffin.

“Are you out of your minds?” Brock asked as they set the coffin on the ground.

“He was an honorary member of the team, he deserves a proper burial.” Collins handed Brock one of the two spades he was holding.

McKinnon cracked a smile, albeit a sad one. If burying the cat in an actual coffin was what it took to raise her spirits at least a little, Brock wasn’t gonna argue.

Mercer placed the body gently inside, and Westfahl and Winter carried it to the lip of the grave. Winter jumped inside, and Westfahl and Jack helped him lower the coffin, then pulled him out.

“Does anyone want to say a few words?” Collins asked, but they shook their heads.

He thrust the spade into the muddy dirt. Brock, trying not to look at the stone, did the same.

“His name was Mickiewicz,” McKinnon muttered, staring grimly at Brock’s name scribbled on the gravestone.

“Now you’re pushing it,” Jack said.

She sighed. “I know. It’s my defense mechanism.”

Collins and Brock filled the grave just enough to cover the coffin. Collins wiped sweat off his forehead and threw the spade under the willow.

“I think a wake is in order,” he said.

The rest nodded and followed him back to the house. Brock propped up his spade against the willow and wiped his hands on his sweatpants, staring after them. Jack’s hand was resting on the small of McKinnon’s back. It made him sick to his stomach.

As he went after them, his muscles stiff, something gleaming on the ground caught his attention. He bent down and picked it up. It was a zippo lighter; McKinnon must have dropped it. He pocketed it and walked inside the house.

In the living room, McKinnon was sitting on the couch, staring at her knees. Jack handed her a filled shot glass. Brock sank in an armchair, his head pounding and stomach turning.

“Did we decide on what the fuck we’re gonna do now?” he asked as Collins handed him a glass.

“Ride around town, search for reception.” Collins shrugged. “Can’t do much else. I wanted to send them a memo via The World, but we’re still outta power.”

Brock wiped his face. “Still?”

Collins nodded grimly.

“Well, no point in sitting around, waiting for a miracle.” Brock downed his vodka, winced—it was warm—and set the glass on the bar. He then stood up and went to get changed.

His bag was under the bed—he must have kicked it at night, or maybe Jack did it in his haste to leave the room in the morning—so he knelt down to pull it out. As he did, something else rolled out after it. Brock froze. He was looking at a sharpie. It wasn’t his—he didn’t bring one with himself—and this was Jack’s room.

He chose clothes that were still vaguely fresh and changed, then he stared at the contents of his bag for a moment before taking a stun baton and returning downstairs. He looked at Jack, who was standing in the middle of the room, slightly slouching, with his hands in his pockets, talking to Collins. He felt like he was dreaming again, only there weren’t any monsters around. He clenched the stun baton tighter, his other hand curled into a fist, the scar pulling.

Jack looked up at him. “Brock, I’m gonna stay with the Asset, there’s no point in taking him, and he’s, well…” He glanced at Winter, who was curled in an armchair, staring at the fireplace with unseeing eyes.

“I know what you’re doing,” Brock told him coldly.

Jack raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “What?”

“I found the sharpie.”

“What shar—” he trailed off, his eyes widening. “I don’t—”

“You’re trying to make me look crazy to take my place as a commander! Guess what, fucker, smarter than you have tried! I’m too good for you, shithead!” Brock pointed his stun baton at him.

Jack paled visibly. He rested his hand on the gun in his holster. “Brock. Listen to yourself.”

“What now, you gonna shoot me?” Brock snarled and an odd laugh tore out of his throat, rough and bitter. “And to think that I trusted you, that I—” He swallowed hard. Anger rushed through him as he thought of what else he felt for the traitor. He advanced on him, his fists trembling. “What else did you do, motherfucker? Drugged me? Had fun seeing me freak out? Had fun playing a good friend?”

He took a swing, turning the stun baton on, and though Jack blocked the hit with his forearm, he still got shocked and stumbled back with a yelp. Brock took another swing, aiming at his head, but this time it was Collins who blocked him, having jumped between the two.

“Rumlow, calm down!” he yelled and got shocked in the ribs for his trouble.

“ _Commander_ Rumlow!” Brock hollered. “You with him? Who else is with you, fuckers? Is there one fucking person who’s still loyal to me?!”

His punch sent Collins to the ground. He lashed out at Jack again who stumbled backwards, set on dodging Brock’s hits rather than fighting him back. Westfahl grabbed Brock’s arms in an iron grip from behind and pulled back. Brock thrashed.

“Boss, calm down!”

“Dammit, Westfahl!” He heard a click and felt a prick in his neck, then another in his arm. He looked up at Jack who was aiming his gun at him. “Rollinsss…”

He staggered. Jack shot him with Winter’s tranquilizers. They were strong enough to knock a super soldier out for a short amount of time, and probably enough to kill a child. Brock’s knees gave way under him, but Westfahl was still holding him, keeping him upright.

“Gonna pay for this…” he slurred as Westfahl lowered him to the ground, the room around him distorting and darkening.

 

*

 

The world was blurred and too bright, and Brock shut his eyes with a groan. His head was pounding, he lost feeling in his arms, and when he tried to sit up, his uncooperative body swayed from side to side, making him nauseous.

“Brock?”

He opened his eyes again, blinking several times to try and clear his vision. Someone was holding his arms, stabilizing him. He smelled tobacco and peppermint gum.

“You with me?” Jack’s face showed in his peripheral vision.

“You fuckin’ drugged me, what the fuck,” Brock slurred.

“You freaked out. You were gonna hurt somebody. I had no choice.”

Jack cut the zip ties that Brock didn’t realize were binding his wrists. He pushed Jack away as soon as his hands were free and tried to get up, but his head spun, his body swayed again and Jack pushed him back to lie down.

“Where’s everybody?” Brock asked after making sure he wasn’t gonna throw up.

“Looking for reception. They went without you.” Jack straightened up, thrust his hands into his pockets and looked away. “You still think I’m after your position as the commander?”

Did he? It sounded like a big joke. Whose idea was this?

Brock looked at the Soldier, still curled in an armchair, his eyes half-closed and unseeing.

“I saw that sharpie and lost my mind,” he muttered.

“You’re not gonna believe me… But we checked the room and there was no sharpie. And even if there was, do you really think I’d be so stupid to leave it lying around for you to find? I didn’t write your name on that gravestone, Brock. I swear, if we ever find out who did, I’ll be the first person to knock their teeth out.”

Brock looked at Jack who still wouldn’t face him. “I believe you…” If he couldn’t trust Jack, then whom could he, really? Not himself. The sharpie being a delusion was more likely than Jack betraying him. “I’d rather believe you than myself…” He sat up again, slowly, his dizziness rising to pass just as soon. He hid his face in his hands. “What’s happening to me?”

“You’re just tired.” Jack’s voice was calm and soothing, his hand on Brock’s shoulder heavy and reassuring. “We’re all tired and sick of this place. You’re gonna get better when we come back, you’ll see.”

“Did I hurt anyone?”

“No. Maybe just my feelings.”

“Very funny. You don’t have feelings.” Brock smiled at him, and the corners of Jack’s mouth twitched in return. “Gotta piss.”

He stood up, Jack’s hands supporting him before he even had a chance to stagger.

“Need some help with that?”

“Yes, Jack, why won’t you hold my dick for me.” Brock pushed Jack’s hands away, rolling his eyes, and went to the bathroom that he knew was on the other side of the staircase, but never was in before.

This bathroom felt cleaner than the one upstairs, maybe because there was no bathtub, though the tiles and the mirror were just as dirty. Brock did his thing and washed his hands, keeping his eyes down. He developed a strange aversion to mirrors, and just a thought of looking into one sent a shiver down his spine. But as he closed the tap and looked vaguely around to see if there were any towels, he caught his eyes in a tarnished silver surface and froze, unable to look away.

His face was pale and thin, his unkempt hair fell upon his forehead and into his tired, shadowed eyes, and his stubble was far too long. He looked like a hobo vampire.

Then the reflection smirked and it wasn’t Brock staring back at him anymore. It looked like him, but was far more sinister, with darkness in its eyes, lips stretching far too wide, teeth looking far too sharp.

 _You’re not the real Brock, I’m the real Brock._ A voice that sounded like him, voice coming from the inside of Brock’s mind but that didn’t belong to him.

Brock wasn’t really thinking when his fist connected with the mirror; it was an impulse. The surface shuttered, splinters piercing his skin. His reflection, distorted by gossamer of cracks, doubling and tripling, stared back wide-eyed and lost.

The door flied open. Jack quickly assessed the situation, his eyes lingering on Brock’s bloodied fist, and in split second he had his gun in Brock’s face. Brock just stared at him, unmoving sans the uncontrollable shivers of his body, his head feeling light and empty.

Jack lowered his gun. “Brock, you with me there?”

Unable to find his voice, Brock simply nodded. Jack sighed, holstered the gun and closed the distance between them. He took Brock’s fist to take a better look, making Brock wince as glass splinters moved inside the cuts.

“Sorry,” Jack murmured.

He led Brock back to the living room and pushed him onto the couch. He told him to wait and went for a med kit. Brock watched the Soldier as he waited. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. His unblinking eyes were fixed on the faded carpet.

Brock swallowed and licked his dry lips. “Winter?” he tried, his voice throaty and quiet.

Winter didn’t react.

Jack came back, sat down beside Brock on the couch, took his injured hand and started pulling the shards out. Brock kept his eyes down, admiring blood stains on his knees.

“Brock?”

He grunted in acknowledgement.

“Just checking if you didn’t retract to your own world, like him.”

Brock glanced at Winter again. “Would be unfortunate. You’d have to replace me.”

Jack sighed. “Stop that. I don’t even _want_ to be a commander. You’re, you’re great. Everyone in the team likes you, they all respect you. No one’s plotting against you. Fuck, Brock, they’d kill for you. Die even, maybe. So please, stop.”

“You have to replace me,” Brock whispered. “I’m a wreck.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’ll be a good commander. People like you, too.” He winced when Jack squeezed his wrist too tight.

“Now you’re scaring me.”

Brock met Jack’s eyes. “Now I’m scaring you? I attacked you, because I somehow convinced myself you wanted to harm me, but it’s when I compliment you that you’re scared?”

“You attacking me is more… you.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Jack offered a lopsided smile. “That’s more like it.”

Without fully realizing what he was doing, Brock brought his uninjured hand to Jack’s bruised lip. The split healed and faded to a red mark. Brock caressed it with his thumb, his fingers tracing along the scar on Jack’s chin. He glanced up to see Jack was staring at his lips with hooded eyes. The air between them was thick, making it harder to breathe. Heat rose in Brock’s chest, up to his neck and cheeks.

The Soldier jumped to his feet with a growl and Jack’s face slipped away from Brock’s fingers as he stood up with his gun trained on him, putting himself between him and Brock.

“Soldier, stand down!” he ordered.

Winter looked at him glassy-eyed and confused, his chest heaving and shoulders trembling.

“Down!” Jack repeated.

Winter slowly sat back in the armchair, his body shaking. Brock grabbed Westfahl’s blanket that was lying on the couch and, with no rapid movements, he wrapped the Soldier in it. Seeing that he wasn’t about to lash out again, Jack lowered the gun.

“Want some water?” Brock asked Winter gently, but he didn’t receive an answer, Winter having gotten lost in his scrambled mind again.

“Maybe I should drug him again,” Jack said.

“Again?”

“I had to shoot him after I did you, he freaked out.”

Brock sighed and looked at Jack seriously, but Jack was stubbornly staring at the Soldier. “They better make contact, because if we don’t get evac soon…”

“I told them not to get back before reaching dispatch, or you’d whip their asses.” Jack looked at Brock’s hand, but still avoided his eyes. “You’re bleeding on the carpet.”

They sat back down and Jack took his hand to clean it.

“I could do that myself,” Brock muttered.

“You never do and end up bleeding over everything.”

“And babying me is in your job description.”

“Exactly.” Jack wrapped Brock’s hand in a bandage.

Brock watched him, waiting for him to at least glance up. “You’d tell me if you had a girlfriend, right?”

“I guess.” Jack was still staring at his hand, though he was done dressing it. “Why?”

“Because I just tried to kiss you and now you’re avoiding me.”

That did the trick. Jack’s eyes snapped to Brock’s, wide and unsure.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he said quietly.

Brock rested his other hand on Jack’s thigh, leaning in. “So can I? Or are you gonna hide in the basement?”

“Just bully me into it, why won’t you?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Jack’s voice dropped to something bordering on seductive, waking a familiar pleasant tingle in Brock’s lower abdomen.

Jack’s lips were soft if a little dry; Brock run his tongue along them. Jack breathed in sharply. It was like he didn’t expect Brock to actually kiss him; he sat still, letting him do whatever he pleased. Brock pulled away with a slight frown. Jack was staring at him with his cheeks flushed.

“What’s wrong?” Brock asked.

Jack pulled himself to his feet, muttered something about water and rushed out of the room.

“Jack!” Brock called after him. “So you’re gonna hide in the kitchen instead of the basement?”

Jack wasn’t returning, so a bit impatient, Brock followed him. Jack was leaning above the sink, staring at a spider crawling up the wall.

“Funny, that was,” he said flatly.

“Wasn’t supposed to be.”

Jack frowned. “Now I’m willing to admit you might be losing your mind just a little.”

“That’s what I thought.” Brock scoffed. “Hey, look at me, asshole.”

Jack slowly turned to face him.

“I hope you weren’t imagining I was Mercer,” Brock muttered. “That’d be embarrassing.”

“Funny you should say that. Mercer did kiss me once and I was imagining she was you…” Jack dropped his gaze. “I can’t believe I just told you that.”

“When did Mercer kiss you?”

“Westfahl’s birthday party. He poured vodka into her wine. And she must’ve been drunk already, or she’d notice otherwise. Why, you jealous?” He smirked.

“Damn right I am! Why didn’t she kiss me?”

Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “I guess you were too busy with your date.”

Brock had brought a girl from match.com that night. Brown hair, nice ass. What was her name again?

“Hm.” He put his hands in his pockets and took a few steps in Jack’s direction. “At least I got some action.”

“You don’t remember that night, do you? Let me tell you what you got: she threw up on you. Not that you noticed, that’s how drunk you were. So I hauled you home and babied you the rest of the night.”

“That still sounds like getting some action to me.” Brock smirked suggestively.

Jack’s eyes snapped back to his. “You don’t think I’d take advantage of you, do you?”

“You took advantage of Mercer.”

“She took me by surprise.”

“So…” Brock reached out to touch Jack’s shoulder, slid his fingers down his arm until he cupped his hand resting in the crook of his elbow. “Which of us is a better kisser?”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “That was hardly a kiss.”

“Oh, was it now?” Brock muttered.

He grabbed Jack by the collar and pulled down, but before he managed to even brush his lips, Jack’s hand was pushing him away.

“Wait…”

“What?” Brock breathed.

Jack wasn’t looking him in the eyes when he said, “It’s not just a game for me.”

“Not a game. I—” Brock’s lower lip quavered. “I want you.”

“You won’t after I tell you something.”

He felt Jack slipping away, so he clenched his collar tighter. “What? What’s so terrible?” His eyes widened and his grip on Jack loosened. “You _are_ after my position…”

“No,” Jack snarled. “Let me finish.”

Brock nodded and kept quiet, waiting for him to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on **October 31st**!


	10. Fire

Jack’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m asexual. And I don’t like sex.”

Brock waited for a terrible confession to follow. When it didn’t, he blinked. “That’s it?”

“‘That’s it’? That’s a deal breaker for many people! It isn’t just a phase, something that will pass. You may think it’s not such a big deal now, but you _will_ want to have sex with me, and I can’t give you that. Won’t give you that, no matter how much you’ll try to convince me. And it’ll frustrate you, make you unhappy, and you’ll blame it on me. We’ll make each other miserable.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, trust me, I do.”

Brock frowned. “Who hurt you?”

Jack all but jerked away from him. “Nobody hurt me,” he said coldly, “I’ve always been like this.”

“No, you misunderstood. Who tried to change you?”

Jack’s shoulders slumped as he lost his defensive pose. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

“Just tell me a name. The jerk will lose a few limbs.”

“Would be a suicide mission.”

“Why, he’s bigger than you?”

“Big and mean.”

“So is it what it’s really about? You prefer taller guys?” Brock cracked a smile but when Jack didn’t, he reached out for his hands and pulled him close. “Okay, you’re right, it’s serious, and I’ll think about it.”

“No need. I already know the answer.”

“No, you don’t. I don’t know it, so—”

“Brock. This won’t work.”

“God, you’re so goddamn stubborn.” Brock rolled his eyes. “Give me a chance. I promise I won’t be like that other guy. Have I ever hurt you?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answer to.”

He sighed and let go of Jack’s hands. He looked at the window—the sky was getting dark.

“Where the fuck are they? How long ago did they leave?”

Jack turned his head to follow his line of sight. “About four hours.”

They ate something and had tea. Brock felt a little better with his stomach full and warm though no less tired. When they returned to the living room, the Soldier was still shaking in the armchair. Jack added more logs to the fire and joined Brock on the couch. He picked up his book and cut himself off the outside world. He still shouldn’t read but Brock was too tired to fight him about it. He pulled out his phone intending to busy himself with a game of Angry Birds but he ended up staring at it, his thoughts focused on Jack.

Sure, he wanted to have sex with Jack. But he also wanted to do other things with him. Could a relationship without sex truly be worse than no relationship at all?

He shot a sideways glance at him. He wouldn’t be like that other guy. When did Jack even date? Must have been long ago, before they moved in together. Maybe even before they met. The image of some other hands on Jack raised his blood pressure, the thought of Jack having feelings for someone else made something ugly and murderous wake in the pit of his stomach. His mind supplied an image of the other guy—tall, taller than Jack, built like a bull, and bald for some reason. He seemed like Jack’s type, a really hardcore guy, in a leather jacket and a cigarette between his teeth, his tattooed knuckles permanently bruised. Maybe he even had scars on his face. He was the kind of guy even Jack would be intimidated by. Brock wasn’t like that. He wasn’t a weakling, far from it, but big, he was not. The only hardcore thing about him was his occupation. He was a nice guy. He wouldn’t make Jack miserable.

He moved closer to Jack and rested his head against his shoulder. His heart fluttered when Jack didn’t flinch away from him; instead, not looking away from the book, he wrapped his arm around Brock’s form and pressed his head to his chest, his fingers tangling into his hair. Brock closed his eyes, the melody of Jack’s strong heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

His muscles twitching snapped him out of his drowsiness. He sat up, untangling himself out of Jack’s embrace. He almost fell asleep again. He must have lost consciousness at least for a while, because the Soldier was now standing in front of the window, his throat emitting a strange rumble, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“What’s he doing?” Brock asked.

Jack watched him silently for a moment before his eyes flicked to Winter.

“Don’t know, he’s been like this for about five minutes.”

Brock stood up and slowly approached Winter, not wanting to startle him. He sounded like he was trying to talk to himself with his lips tight shut, or humming.

“Winter?” Brock reached out to touch his shoulder.

The Soldier spun around, the back of his metal hand hitting the side of Brock’s face hard enough for him to lose his balance. Through the dark spots plaguing his vision from the blinding pain in his jaw, Brock saw Jack aim at the Soldier.

“Don’t!” he barked, the side of his face pulsing in pain.

Jack frowned and clenched his jaw but didn’t dare to disobey.

“Commander.” The Soldier sounded surprised. He took a hold of Brock’s shoulder with his metal hand and pulled him up to his feet. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes were wide and glassy.

“I’m fine.” Brock’s voice was hoarse. He fought back the tears of pain that threatened to leak from his eyes. He was lucky his jaw didn’t break. “What about you, what’s up with you?”

Winter’s lip quavered as he tried hard to respond to the question without knowing the answer.

“You’re tired?” Brock supplied and Winter nodded, looking lost and confused. “It’s alright. Rollins will walk you to your room, he’ll give you something to help you sleep, alright? Be good for him.”

Jack took Winter’s right arm in a tight hold with his free hand, the other still clenching the gun, and walked him out of the room. Brock sank down on the couch, his stiff muscles trembling as stress slowly seeped out of them.

The front door opened and the rest of the team walked in, looking beat. Brock didn’t need them to say anything to know the outcome of their trip, but they stopped in front of him, anyway.

“We’re ready to take a whooping,” McKinnon said.

Brock rested his elbows on his knees and wiped his face, wincing as his fingertips brushed the swelling. “We’re gonna try again tomorrow and if that doesn’t work, we’ll discuss what to do next,” he decided.

The team exchanged looks.

“Shouldn’t there be a rescue team sent already?” Mercer asked.

“Last we knew, they couldn’t take off.” Seeing Collins opening his mouth, Brock barked, “Don’t.”

Collins shut his mouth. He had a nasty bruise on his cheekbone where Brock had punched him. It matched Brock’s new one.

Westfahl sat down beside Brock and the rest of the team slowly moved upstairs. Not wanting to engage in conversation with him, Brock went to the kitchen to take a drink of water and then followed his teammates. He moved slowly, every next footstep heavier than the other, but eventually, he reached the bedroom. Jack and McKinnon were whispering to each other but cut off the moment they saw him. McKinnon pulled up the corners of her mouth in a fake smile.

“Well, the bathroom should be free. Goodnight, Jack. Brock.” She brushed past him on her way out, avoiding to look at him.

Jack closed the distance between them and tilted Brock’s face up to look at the bruise. Brock winced and Jack muttered an apology.

“Why did you stop me?” he asked. “He could’ve really hurt you.”

“He didn’t mean to, I startled him.”

“You’re too soft on him.”

“Yeah? Got any tips to spare, Mr. Main Handler?” Brock pushed Jack’s hand aside and turned away. His stomach dropped as he looked at the warm and welcoming bed. He was tired and the sedatives he had been shot with weren’t helping, but he dreaded falling asleep.

“He’s not a poor little kid, he’s a dangerous weapon. I shouldn’t need to tell you that.” Jack’s low voice sent shivers down his spine. “What’s the matter? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Jus’ don’t really feel like sleeping,” he muttered, closing his eyes as Jack wrapped his arms around him from behind.

“Nonsense. You were drifting off just a moment ago.” Jack’s mouth moved against his neck. His breath smelled of toothpaste.

And just a moment ago, Jack was arguing about how being together wasn’t a good idea, but Brock would not point it out in case Jack distanced himself again.

“You haven’t slept normally in almost a week, this is why you’re having problems. Everything’ll get back to normal, but you need to sleep.”

“I don’t think normal sleep is possible for me anymore,” Brock said bitterly.

“Of course it is.” Seeing he wasn’t convinced, Jack sighed and let go of him. “Look, I’m gonna be there, right beside you. I’m not gonna let you wander off anywhere.” He lay down on the bed and sent him a nasty grin. “And I’ll even get up to walk you to the bathroom if you need to pee.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Brock muttered.

He stripped off his clothes and caught Jack staring as he was reaching for his sweatpants.

“I thought you weren’t into sex.”

Jack shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the beauty.”

“Did you just call me beautiful?” Brock teased.

“No.”

He lay down beside Jack, something in his pocket digging into his leg. The zippo lighter; he forgot to take it out.

Jack turned onto his side to face him. Brock wrapped his arm around his waist, expecting Jack to push him away any second, but Jack pressed his body against Brock’s, his hands traveling up his back in a gentle caress that made him shiver. Brock grinned in relief, his cheek hurting, but he just couldn’t stop. Jack smiled back.

“What?”

Brock really didn’t have an answer. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time and it was slightly overwhelming. He didn’t remember ever handling emotions that strong. They were already pressed flush together, hearts beating against each other, and yet his insides burned with a need for more. He could never be close enough.

He should have strangled those feelings as soon as he noticed them instead of letting them bloom.

“Are you gonna sleep?” Jack asked.

Brock swallowed. “Can’t. Too excited with you so close.”

Jack rolled his eyes and started to pull away but Brock held him tighter.

“Brock—”

Brock cut him off with his lips. Jack didn’t push him away this time and didn’t passively let him do what he wanted; he kissed back hungrily, like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. His eager mouth turned the pain in Brock’s jaw sweet. He pushed Jack onto his back and straddled his hips, tongue exploring. His heart was racing and there wasn’t enough blood flowing to his brain. He didn’t notice right away when Jack started pushing him back instead of pulling in, desperately trying to get away. It took him another moment to realize the reason for this sudden change in behavior were his hands under Jack’s t-shirt that Jack forcefully dragged away. Or perhaps it was Brock’s erection against Jack’s lower abdomen.

“Hey.” Brock said gently. “I wasn’t gonna. You know I wasn’t. We can make this work, I know we can, but I need you to trust me.”

“Like you trust me?” Jack snarled. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking at Brock resentfully.

“I do trust you,” Brock whispered. “I know you wouldn’t betray me. I have no idea why I was suspecting you. I don’t know what came over me. I know—you’re always—you always have my back. And I guess I never thanked you for it, never let you know how much it means to me—” he trailed off as Jack raised his hand to check his forehead. “Very funny, asshole.”

Jack offered a lopsided smile. “That’s the spirit.”

Brock made a face and flopped beside him. Jackass knew how to ruin the mood.

Jack’s hand found his and their fingers entwined. “Wake me up when you feel a desire to take a pointless walk to the mirror room or something.” He pulled the covers over their bodies and closed his eyes. “Though hopefully I’ll wake up when you try to break free.”

“Hopefully? That’s very reassuring,” Brock muttered.

“I said I’d keep you safe. You trust me or not?”

Brock didn’t answer. His head and eyelids felt heavy, and he closed his eyes. He drifted off to the sound of Jack’s even breathing and his thumb caressing the side of his hand.

He woke up to a weight on his hips. His eyes felt like glued together, his mouth was dry like the Sahara. But what clued him in that something was very wrong, was his body, overcame by pins and needles. He could barely move.

He opened his eyes and was greeted by the view of the lady in white straddling his hips. The skin that grew over her whole body was decaying but it didn’t smell. The lady didn’t have eyes, but Brock could tell she was staring at him. Her mouth was open beneath the skin, but no sound was coming out.

He was still lying in bed and someone was holding his hand. Jack. It would be a good moment to wake him, to check if he also saw that shit. Not without effort, Brock turned his head, but it wasn’t Jack lying beside him. He came face to face with his reflection. He—no, _it_ , it wasn’t a person, Brock was hundred percent positive now—smiled when their eyes locked. Brock let go of the hand, tried to scramble off, but his body wasn’t listening to him. His doppelgänger’s fingers stayed entwined with his.

“Where’s Jack?” he tried to say, barely any sound escaping his mouth. But the doppelgänger understood him just fine.

“I took him.” Its voice was calm, soothing. “Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.” And it smiled even wider.

And for some strange reason, Brock didn’t worry. Worry was the last thing he felt. The lady rested her hands on his chest and he looked up at her. Sparks of electricity danced around her shoulders, skipped along her arms to her hands, but they didn’t shock him.

“Yes, give in to us,” the doppelgänger murmured. “Why fight it? Stay with us.”

It moved closer to Brock, pressed itself against his side. It felt cool and hard, unlike a body. More like a mirror.

“You think you’re going crazy.”

The doppelgänger’s cold hand caressed Brock’s cheek. He didn’t flinch, focused on watching the sparks of electricity on the lady’s shoulders. Supporting herself on her hands, she moved against him, rubbing herself against the bulge in his pants. Brock hadn’t thought about her as a sexual being before but now he realized that she was naked. The skin that covered her, that grew over her nipples, belly button and vulva looked like a dress, but it was a part of her. He was torn between the feeling of absolute revulsion and desire to please her.

“And you are.”

It was hard for Brock to make a connection between the doppelgänger’s words but after a minute, he got it. He was going crazy. His delusion confirmed it. He held his breath, waiting for… It was stupid, but he was waiting for Jack’s voice to deny it. Jack kept denying it. But there was only silence between the creaking of the bed as the lady dry humped him into the old mattress.

“But we can fix you. Just stay with us. Stay here forever. We’ll take good care of you and no one will hurt you again. _You_ won’t hurt anyone again.”

Brock closed his eyes. It was… so tempting. Would it be so bad if he did what they wanted? Many people wanted a lot of things from him. Bad people. Good people. What was the difference? Would it matter if he stayed? He wanted to please them. He was tired. So sick of fighting back, struggling against something he had no strength to defeat. Maybe if he agreed, they’d let him sleep and eat. That was all he wanted, to rest.

His eyes snapped open. “Where’s Jack?” he demanded more firmly, scanning the doppelgänger’s face. It looked like him, but it wasn’t him. Brock remembered the creature crawling on the floor, its face distorted into a nightmare.

“He’s with me,” the doppelgänger soothed. “He chose me. Choose me, too, and you’ll be reunited. You’ll be together. Forever.”

The lady was shaking in pleasure above him. The doppelgänger still caressed his face, smiling affectionately. Brock felt needed. He felt loved. He felt like he could fall asleep and never wake up.

Perhaps he was dying…

His body jerked in an involuntary attempt to keep itself alive. Brock heard a moan in his head. It was the lady. Satisfaction filled him; she was pleased with him. He pleased her.

The doppelgänger pulled itself up on its elbow, rested its forehead against Brock’s.

“Give in. Stay.”

And Brock whispered, “Yes.”

The doppelgänger let go of him, disappeared from his peripheral vision. The lady raised her hands. She was very pleased with him, he could tell. He heard electricity buzz as she pressed her hands to the sides of his head.

The pain split his brain in half.

At first he thought he went blind, but soon, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The lady was gone. There was still a hand holding his but this time it really was Jack’s. He was lying on his back, his chest rising in time with his breaths. His hand clenched around Brock’s when he tried to untangle his fingers, and his eyes fluttered open.

“Brock?” he croaked out.

“Bathroom,” Brock murmured, getting his hand free. “I’ll be back in a sec, I promise. Go back to sleep.”

He expected Jack to insist on going with him, but he just turned onto his side and buried his face in his pillow. Brock smiled. Sleepy Jack wasn’t too protective, and that was what Brock was counting on.

He got up, dull pain still present behind his eyes. He left the room, but instead turning right to the bathroom, he went downstairs. Westfahl was asleep on the couch, curled in a ball under a couple of rough blankets. The fire went out, but Brock wasn’t worried. He walked up to the bar where a lot of bottles of vodka and that one of rum remained. He picked one up and inspected it in the moonlight.

It wasn’t just a dream. It was too real, hit a little too close to home. The doppelgänger said it had Jack and that it would return him if Brock agreed to stay. Was it a coincidence Brock 'woke up' to Jack holding his hand right after he said yes? The doppelgänger told him he was going crazy and maybe it was true. Or maybe Brock was only supposed to believe it. He didn’t feel crazy now, but crazy people usually didn’t, did they?

He was certain of one thing: up there, with those creatures pressed to him so close, whispering soothingly in his ear, he wanted to stay. He wanted to be fixed. He wanted to rest. And if that meant staying, he was ready to stay, and that scared him more than anything.

He wasn’t going to stay in this place a minute longer.

He opened the bottle and turned it upside down. He walked around the room until it was empty; then, he snatched another and emptied it on the rug. He was making a circle around the couch when Westfahl woke up.

“Boss?” He blinked several times before his eyes focused on Brock. “What you doin’?”

Brock didn’t respond. Westfahl squinted at him.

“Boss, that’s a perfectly good vodka you’re wasting.”

Brock poured the last remnants of alcohol on the staircase and let the bottle drop to the floor. It made a lot of noise in the still house, but it didn’t matter. It would be for the best if STRIKE woke up, anyway.

“Boss!” Westfahl yelled when Brock took McKinnon’s zippo lighter out of his pocket and flicked it on.

It took it awfully long to reach the floor, but once it hit the wood and the alcohol caught on fire, time returned to its natural pace. Westfahl shrieked as the flames surrounded the couch and did the only thing he thought of to warn his teammates; he fired his gun at the ceiling.

Brock stood in awe, watching the flames consume the house that from a safe haven—that was never truly safe in the first place—turned into a prison of nightmares. Westfahl was yelling something, but it was lost on him through the crackling of the fire. Heat blew in his face, hurting his eyes, and his skin broke in sweat. His clothes were burning.

If he wasn’t standing near the staircase, he’d never notice people running down. Jack walked through the fire that devoured the bottom steps.

“BROCK!” he yelled, his eyes frantically looking for a safe way to reach him.

But Brock was surrounded, and the flames closed in on him. He took a stumbling step back before the fire licked his bare feet and felt another wave of heat on the back of his neck. His shoulders shook in a chuckle. He wanted to escape, but he was about to perish here after all. Hilarious!

Jack gave up on searching and started breaking through the flames. Brock’s eyes widened. The hell was he doing? He would hurt himself!

The Winter Soldier shoved Jack away from the flames, his metal arm glowing angry orange.

“ _Бежим!_ Out!”

He shoved Jack again when he tried to fight back. Brock caught his gaze and shook his head at him, sweat running down his face and neck. But Jack didn’t need that to know that he lost; his shoulders slumped and McKinnon pulled him by his arm towards the exit. Winter walked through the fire himself, lifted Brock with his left arm like he weighed nothing, and carried him out into the front yard.

The cool night air was a bliss. Brock’s knees gave out under him as he coughed and gasped. He looked at the house with watering eyes. Orange glowed in the windows, clouds of black smoke fell through the door and raised, blending with the dark sky. He burst out laughing. It was over. The house was gone.

Somebody squeezed his shoulders.

“Brock! Brock! What’s up with you?!” Jack’s shocked face showed up in his peripheral vision.

Brock managed to contain his laughter only to yell, “We can finally go home now!”

He was still laughing gleefully when Winter carried out a passed-out Westfahl. He was nearly suffocating when multiple hands tried to pull him away from the blackening walls of the house. He was still chuckling helplessly when he felt pinpricks in his neck. His voice died out and he was consumed by the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue will be posted on November 2nd.
> 
> Happy Halloween!


	11. Epilogue

He woke about five times, each time the light greeting him too bright to keep his eyes open for too long. His mind was blank and tired, and he gladly slipped into the darkness of unawareness.

The sixth time he woke, the room wasn’t as bright anymore. He recognized the stiff bed sheets and white walls. There was an IV in the back of his hand. He looked up at the container and squinted, waiting for the blurry letters to come into focus. Electrolytes and metamizole.

Carefully, he propped himself up on his elbows. He didn’t know what the damage was. He wasn’t in any pain, but that was due to painkillers. His face felt numb. He raised his hand to touch it and felt a swelling along the right side of his jaw.

He looked around. He was in a hospital room with three beds. He was lying in the middle one; the two on his sides were vacant. His nightstand was empty save for dog tags discarded there carelessly. He frowned. Were those his? His heart skipped a beat when he realized he not only couldn’t recall what happened and why he was here, he didn’t remember his own name.

He was about to take the dog tags and read them when he heard approaching footsteps accompanied by voices. He lay down, his head turned towards the glass door.

He saw a tall man dressed in black, with high cheekbones, dark, slicked back hair, green eyes, and a yellowing bruise on the side of his forehead, standing in the doorway. He was talking to another one, shorter, bald, in a suit of a color of mustard, or maybe a buttered toast. The tall man’s voice was soft and pleasant.

His heart lept and his lips stretched in a smile though he didn’t quite understand why. He pulled himself up again to take a better look at that man he didn’t quite recognize but whose sight cheered him up.

The tall man noticed the movement and turned to face him. The other side of his face was also bruised, and there was a red mark in the center of his lower lip. “Brock.”

Brock. His name. He was Brock Rumlow, commander of STRIKE, Hydra sleeper agent. And this was Jack Rollins, his best friend.

Brock was still smiling when Jack approached his bed. The bald man—Jasper Sitwell, his memory helpfully supplied—nodded at him and left hurriedly.

“I see you’re in a good mood.” Jack raised his eyebrow.

Brock shrugged. “What happened?” His words were slurred; it was hard to form them with a side of his face swollen.

“An op gone awry. What do you remember?”

Brock frowned as memories swirled around in his head. “What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Monday what?”

“November the eighth.”

“Fuck… I remember leaving on Halloween…”

Jack nodded, looking away. Something was wrong, Brock could tell by the little crease between his eyebrows. He swallowed.

“How bad did we westfahl?”

“Not too bad.” Jack’s voice became tight. “Targets eliminated.”

“Targets?”

“There were two. You got a head trauma.” He still wasn’t looking at Brock.

“Others?”

“Others are fine.”

“You?”

“Mild concussion, mostly healed by now.”

It wasn’t concussion that bothered Jack, that much was clear. But everything else seemed fine. Targets eliminated, STRIKE was fine, Brock was fine… Save for the little amnesia. The same thing happened  to him after the op three months ago, only he lost much more than just a week. The doctors assured him the memories would eventually come back, but they never truly did. Jack had had the same troubled expression back then.

He wasn’t sure if it was because Jack was worried or because Brock did something he no longer remembered. Just like the last time, he figured it’d be better for him not to find out.

“Well, when can I leave here? I feel fine. I want home.”

Jack offered something between a shrug and a nod. “I’ll ask.”

He turned around and left without sparing Brock a glance.

Brock rested his head on his pillow, suddenly exhausted. He didn’t know why he saw sparks of electricity when he closed his eyes, but he fell asleep before he had a chance to wonder about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who stuck with me till the end. Thank you for leaving kudos and comments. I feel you deserve a better ending than this, but this is how the story goes.


End file.
